


Do You Feel Like a Young God?

by onceandfuturewarlock



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, BAMF Merlin, Brainwashing, Canon Divergent, Disassociation, F/M, Flashbacks, Humiliation, Hurt Merlin, M/M, Magic Reveal, Magic Suppression, Masturbation, Ownership Kink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Season 4 AU, Torture, Verbal Abuse, Voyeurism, dub-con, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-06-14 09:12:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15385536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onceandfuturewarlock/pseuds/onceandfuturewarlock
Summary: "If I am to keep your secret," Agravaine's touch glided upward now, tugging light but insistent at the waistband of Merlin's trousers, "then I do deserve some form of recompense."





	1. Do You Feel Like a Young God?

**Author's Note:**

> "Do you feel like a young god?  
> You know the two of us,  
> We're just young gods.  
> And we'll be flying through the streets,  
> With the people underneath,  
> And we'll be running, running, running,  
> Again."
> 
> \- Young God, Halsey

It never got better.

Not—not  _really_ —no matter how many batty old sorcerers bent on revenge—no matter how many soldiers and Saxons—no matter how many speeches spouted off about destiny—no matter how many spells he learned—how many misinformed druids dropped to their knees when they spotted him—how many sleepless nights stood at his back—how many times he'd ended up exactly like this, dragging in breath after agonizing, hard-won breath, trying desperately not to think about the burning pain in his side—

No. It never really got better.

But Merlin was getting a damn sight better at hiding it.

He smothered another hiss of pain, pressing a pale, shaking hand to his ribs—the skin, beneath his torn jacket and tunic, was warm and sticky and slick, fingers squelching wetly upon contact.

Great. Wonderful, really. Just perfect.

That damn assassin really hadn't known when to give up, had he?

Not that it mattered so much anymore—said assassin wasn't a threat to anyone with the way Merlin had left him, lying facedown at the bottom of the ravine some three miles off, with broken neck and glassy, still-open eyes—and, unless Merlin was looking to join him in eternal sleep, he needed to get moving.

He pushed himself up on his knees with one hand—he didn't quite dare take the other one off his ribs yet, didn't even want to think about the burst, bleeding skin beneath his shirt—of course he'd have to get a better look at things when he got back to his own chambers—but he was absolute rubbish with healing spells—might be best to just do it the old-fashioned way—

He shifted, prepared to stand, and another bolt of pain tore through him like a knight's lance—a sharp gasp slipped from between his tightly clenched teeth, hard as he tried to suppress it, and little white stars burst suddenly behind his eyes—for a minute, the whole world tilted, and he thought he might drop right back to the ground—no—no, he was all right—he could handle it—just a bit of pain—gods knew he'd had worse—

Maybe he could call Kilgharrah—save himself the long, painful trek—he'd chased the assassin deep into the Darkling Woods—much deeper than he'd intended, actually—the castle spires were but a distant, dark sillehoutte, standing stark against the bright, full moon—but as long as there was breath in his body, no lowlife sword-for-hire was getting anywhere near his king, no matter how far he had to go to catch them—he drew in a breath, and tipped back his head—the dragonlord summons lay ready on his tongue—no—wait—that wouldn't work, would it? As much as he wanted to, he couldn't risk it—suppose the palace guards actually decided to do their jobs for once, and happened to glimpse a great bloody dragon swooping in the skies over their heads—oh, he didn't even want to think about it—especially if it was the dragon he'd claimed Arthur had slain a good six years ago—

No—no, he'd just have to go it alone this time. Just like he had last time. And the time before last. And the time before that, and the time before that, and the time before—

Merlin pressed his lips together, and got to his feet—everything tilted around him again, going in circles for several minutes, but he could handle it, he could handle it, he'd had worse—it was no use feeling sorry for himself, anyway—it was better this way, when he stopped to think about it—it was better for him to be alone—at least this way, no one else got hurt—not like last time—not like—

No.

No, no, he wasn't thinking about that—he  _wasn't_ —he wouldn't—he wouldn't think about it—he wouldn't think about any of it—he wouldn't think about the Callieach, white-haired and withered, her expression unreadable as she stared him down from across that ancient, crumbling stone altar—your time among men is not yet over—and he wouldn't think about Lancelot, or his straight-backed, confident stride into the world beyond the veil—he'd never stopped—never so much as faltered, never thought twice, never hesitated—he'd always been the bravest of them all—the noblest—he didn't deserve to—not like that—not for—not for Merlin—he wasn't worth it—he wasn't worth—Lancelot—he shouldn't have—he shouldn't have—

No.

He wouldn't think about it.

Merlin drew a shaky, shuddering breath, and wiped a hand across his eyes—maybe that would banish the burn behind them. He just needed to get back to his chambers—maybe he'd actually be able to fall asleep tonight—

So he went, on foot and in silence, head bent against the brisk, bitter winds that stirred the leaves and tossed his hair—until his legs trembled, and throbbed with exhaustion—until every step had his ribs screaming—until his hands were numb with cold, and he'd drawn his thin jacket tight about him, shivering violently—whether from frost or fever, he didn't know, and didn't particularly care—until he stood at last in Gaius' warm, darkened chambers, easing the door closed behind himself.

The fire burned low in the hearth, and what he wouldn't give to just—just collapse into the seat by the grate—just  _sit_ , and not do anything, and not think—but his palms were stained, the skin stiff and crusty with drying blood—and his head felt like he'd just gone a few hundred rounds with several dozen sorcerers, and he knew if he didn't take care of it now, he'd probably regret it come sunrise.

Perhaps he could wake Gaius—oh, he knew the old man would likely be furious with him, likely fret and fuss over him, likely scold him for going after the assassin without telling his mentor where he'd gone—oh, yes, that was a conversation that would go perfectly— _by the way, Gaius, I'll be in the Darkling Woods saving Arthur's ungrateful backside for the fourth time this week—don't wait up—_ but at least then, he could get the wound seen to—besides, after the night he'd just had, he felt, childishly, that he'd quite like a bit of fussing, just this once—a sympathetic ear, at least, would be nice, he couldn't deny that—

But then he saw Gaius, deep in slumber and snoring softly in his shabby, rickety cot—pale eyes shut tight, wrinkled face smooth and untroubled in sleep—Merlin felt his lips twitch up into a small, fond smile at the sight, a great rush of affection for the old man swelling suddenly in his chest—no, he couldn't bring himself to wake Gaius, not when he looked like that—so peaceful, so relaxed, so far removed from the concerns and anxieties plaguing his waking hours—the poor man had been so worried about Merlin for so long now—ever since they'd come back from the Isle of the Blessed—ever since Lancelot—

No. He wouldn't think about it.

Merlin walked past the sleeping Gaius—forced himself on, really—his body had turned leaden and sluggish with exhaustion and pain sometime in the last few minutes—he dropped gratefully into the seat by the fire—just for a minute, he promised himself, just for a minute—he let his eyes fall closed, welcoming the blissful darkness awaiting him behind them—if he shifted just slightly to the right, the brunt of the pressure eased off his bleeding ribs, and it wasn't nearly so hard to breathe—and he knew he needed to sit up and get his shirt off and get a better look at the wound, but God, he didn't want to move—he never wanted to move again—if he could just sit here, and just—just  _not think_ —not about the Isle or the veil or the Callieach or Lancelot or any of it—but it wouldn't do any good—he could stop thinking about it—if he really tried—it burned, bright and raw, at the back of his mind, always, a steady and eternal fire, but he could—he could douse it—for a while—if he really tried—he knew he could—but it didn't  _matter_ , it didn't do any  _good_ , because gods knew if he wasn't thinking about Lancelot, he'd just start thinking about everything that had happened after—Gwen's tear-streaked face, and the smoke from the funeral pyre in the courtyard filling his lungs, or the bowed heads of the knights, or—or everything that had happened after that—Uther's gloved hands clasped loosely over his motionless chest, his face still and pale and uncharacteristically peaceful as he breathed his last—and Arthur, eyes rimmed in red and narrowed in rage— _pure evil, pure evil, pure evil,_ he'd called magic  _pure evil_ —and no matter how many times Merlin told himself he wouldn't think about it, he knew he'd never be able to forget those words, even if he lived for a thousand years.

Arthur had called magic  _pure evil_.

And it was all because of him.

He'd been blind, so blind—so stupid, so painfully arrogant—believing he, and he alone, could bring about the predestined change in Arthur—play fate like a game, pushing everyone about the board like pawns, and all for—all for what? To fulfill his destiny? To save the man who would have gladly rent it apart, had he only known of its existence?

Blind. Stupid. Arrogant.

_Selfish._

He'd been selfish.

He could have saved Lancelot. If he'd really wanted to, he could have stopped the whole thing—could have thrown him back from the veil, and gone charging through himself—could have tried to bring him back, could have offered himself in his friend's place, as he'd been intending to do with Arthur—a thousand and one roads he could have taken, and instead, he'd waited there where the path divided until it was too late to do anything at all, because he'd been scared, and selfish, and he'd wanted to  _live_ —

 _Selfish._  He'd been selfish.

He could have saved Uther. If he'd tried hard enough. He'd sensed the dark magic surrounding the old king—a noxious black cloud, so thick it'd nearly suffocated him, and he—he hadn't realized. He'd been so selfish—so blinded by his hope and his fear, by his faith that this would set him free—

 _Free._  Merlin could have laughed at the thought, if only it didn't hurt so much.  _Free._  All those dreams he'd cherished of a world where the druids and sorcerers, the witches and warlocks, the spellbinders and the mages, walked the same streets as ordinary folk, those secret and beautiful hopes held so close to his traitorous, bleeding heart for so long, the wonderful, world-changing destiny he'd actually believed to be  _his_ —

He had been selfish, and he had been a fool.

His kind would never be free.  _He_  would never be free. He knew that now.

And Arthur—Arthur must never know the truth. Merlin must never tell him what had really been happening all these years. The secrets between them must never come to light. Albion must never be united.

Destiny must never be fulfilled.

Merlin's ribs gave another throb, so sudden and sharp, it pulled him at once back to the present. He leaned forward—suppressing a wince at the pain—and slowly shed his jacket, careful to avoid aggravating the wound any further. He untied his neckerchief, and—here came the hard part—reached for the hem of his tunic. Every movement, every breath, had his side putting up a fierce protest, but at last, he'd pulled the rough, scratchy cloth up over his head, and tossed it to the floor.

He'd have to pick it up, he realized belatedly, before he went up to bed—gods forbid Gaius wake up before him and see the bloodstained fabric strewn on the ground—it'd likely give the poor man a near heart attack—and he already had more than enough to be getting on with—he didn't need to know Merlin had gotten hurt again, especially not since Merlin could take care of it himself.

He sat up a little straighter in the chair—another wave of pain washing over him like water, but he was good at pressing his lips together and counting the seconds until it died down enough for him to think again—and looked down, gingerly probing the bloody gash with eyes and hands alike.

No poison—would have sensed it if there had been—and, from the looks of it, nothing important had been severed, either—that assassin may have known what he was doing with the knife, but he definitely hadn't been counting on facing a sorcerer—right, this wasn't too bad then. He'd be more than a little tender for the next few weeks, but it wasn't anything that he hadn't felt before—a damn sight better than those Serkets, that was for sure.

" _Forbærning,"_ he murmured, and the edges of the wound crawled, like two large, bizarre insects, closer and closer together, skin slowly but steadily sewing itself back up. There—that should do it—now he just needed to drag himself up the stairs and into bed, but he was just so _tired_ —the warmth of the flames in the hearth, their soft crackles and pops, soothed and settled him—he slumped down a little farther in his seat, letting his eyes fall closed—just for a moment— _just a moment—_

The door flew open.

Thick wood crashed against solid stone, tearing through the silence like a sword, shattering it like glass—the world exploded with sound, a deafening burst so loud Merlin could scarcely fathom how Gaius didn't wake—he shot to his feet, one hand going up and out, magic thrumming and thrashing inside his veins—for barely half a moment, he could just make out a figure, tall and dark and indistinct—in the low light of the dying fire, it was impossible to see much more—and then the figure turned around, and they _ran_.

And Merlin ran after them.

He didn't stop to think about it—he didn't  _have_  to—he bolted across the room and through the door, out into the wide, airy stone corridor—blood pounding loudly in his ears and heart battering violently at his ribs and the thin soles of his worn-out boots slapping against the stones, and his magic burning and buzzing inside of him—for a second, he saw no one, and he stopped, but— _there_ —just there—around the corner—the mud-spattered hem of a rich purple traveling cloak whipped just out of sight—recognition twitched, briefly, in the back of his mind—he  _knew_ that cloak—he quickened his pace—coming up on the corner now—just a few more moments and he'd be—

"Merlin?"

The sound that left his throat was somewhere, he was sure, between a cry and a curse—his heart gave a great bound in his chest, and he whirled round in an instant, hand rising on instinct, power already surging to life inside him—

"You all right there, Merlin?" Sir Leon stared back at him, brows pinched up in a tight, anxious line.

"I—" Merlin flushed, and dropped his hand. Right, okay, excuse—he needed an excuse—something to say, some way to explain—something that would help him  _get away_ —he realized, then, too late, that he still didn't have his shirt on. Oh, this was just getting better and better. "I—I was—" He floundered.

Leon raised his eyebrows, but the corner of his mouth twitched as he, obviously unsuccessfully, fought back a smile.

"—sleepwalking. I—I must have been sleepwalking. I do that. Sometimes." All right, so it wasn't perfect, but it was plausible, at least, and gods knew he'd fed Arthur much worse. Just last week, he'd mumbled something to do with scrub brushes and leech tanks, and the king-to-be hadn't bothered to press him.

"I see." Leon's brows rose, if possible, even farther—he could take over for Gaius if he kept this up—and he must have lost the battle against his lips, because a grin settled on his face. He didn't look as though he believed a word. "Sleepwalking. Come on, then, I'll take you back to your chambers." Then, before Merlin could protest, or even think of a way to protest that wouldn't immediately arouse his friend's suspicion, the knight clapped a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder, and steered him straight back the way he'd come.

"I—you don't have to do this, Leon, this  _really_  isn't necessary," Merlin tried to shrug off the strong fingers, without much success.

Leon just laughed. "It's all right. It's on the way to my own chambers anyway."

Before Merlin could say anything else, they stopped in front of Gaius' door, still open—the physician himself stood in the center of the room, in nothing but his nightshirt, his cot abandoned, the sheets rumpled, the blankets thrown back—the instant he spotted his ward, he arched his infamous brow.

Merlin flushed again—nearly six years since he'd come to Camelot, and with one glance, Gaius could make him feel like a child all over again.

"Sorry to disturb you, Gaius," Leon pushed his hair back from his face, and smiled at the older man, "just helping Merlin here get back to his room. Merlin," the knight added, lightly squeezing his shoulder, "get some rest, yeah?" He finally released his hold.

With a little nod to Gaius, and one last smile, Leon left the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Merlin." It wasn't a question. Not really.

Merlin couldn't keep back a wince—if Gaius would just—just give him a _moment_ —just a moment to gather his thoughts—just a moment to calm his whirling mind—the assassin in the woods and the figure in the doorway and how much had they seen and where had they gone and where were they now and what did they know and who were they going to tell and was there any way he could convince them to keep quiet and how was he even going to find them again and how was he going to figure out who they were and what, was he just supposed to keep an eye out for anyone wearing a purple cloak, and no, that was stupid, and what would Gaius say when he heard about all this and what would Gaius _think_  when he heard about all this and—

_No._

Merlin swallowed.

No, nothing had really—nothing had really _happened_ , had it? And there was no sense in going around giving Gaius more things to worry about—he'd borne the burden of his ward's secrets far too long now—it wasn't fair for Merlin to try and add yet another weight to those aging, weary shoulders—

"Sleepwalking." Merlin stepped past his guardian, and started up the narrow stairway. The knot in his stomach tightened every single step of the way. "I was sleepwalking."

* * *

Sir Leon didn't wear a purple cloak.

Sir Leon didn't even _like_  the color purple, and anyway, he'd shown up only seconds after the figure had disappeared down the next corridor—even with all his stealth and skill, he couldn't possibly have doubled back behind Merlin in the span of moments—and he wouldn't have done, anyway—Leon was, above all, a straightforward man. Had he seen Merlin, or anyone, using magic within the walls of Camelot, he would have confronted them straight-out—none of this sneaking around, and certainly no pretense.

Gwaine liked the color purple.

But—but he didn't wear a purple cloak, and the figure in the doorway was, by Merlin's split-second estimate at least, a few inches taller than the knight—and anyway, he was no less direct than Leon. He wouldn't have just run away from the situation—Gwaine never ran away from anything.

Couldn't have been Elyan, either—if the figure was taller than Gwaine, they were  _definitely_  taller than Elyan, the shortest of the group. Shorter than Percival, though, by at least a head, and nowhere near as broad—so Percival was out, too.

And it wasn't Arthur—there wasn't a doubt in Merlin's mind about that—three days it had been since he'd first seen the figure in the doorway, and Arthur hadn't acted any different—hadn't called for Merlin's execution—hadn't ordered a pyre to be built—hadn't locked him down in the dungeons or accused him of treason or betrayal—no, Arthur was absolutely out of the question.

That was the real problem here—Merlin could list absolutely everyone he knew it wasn't in the space of a single breath, but he hadn't the slightest clue as to who it  _was_. And his stupid, overactive, hyper-vigilant, sleep-deprived mind was positively  _glorying_  in that—everywhere he looked, he could swear he saw the hem of a purple cloak flashing just out of sight or a dark, indistinct figure lurking down every hall—a faceless, terrifying sillehoutte, just waiting for the right moment to jump out and reveal his secret to anyone who would listen. The few times he'd slipped into sleep since that night, his slumber proved short-lived and easily broken, filled with further visions of the figure in the doorway—visions which usually ended with the scent of his own flesh burning in his nose, as he writhed and twisted helplessly on the pyre or, in the absolute worst version, with Arthur's devastated face as he suffered the pain of betrayal for the second time in as many years.

And it was easier to stay awake, anyway—easier than fighting a mind that wouldn't just shut up or shut down—easier than lying in bed, watching as the moonlight made narrow silver bars along his ceiling and wondering who had it had really been in the doorway that night, and what they were going to do with his secret now that they held it in their hands.

It could be  _anyone_.

Merlin gazed again out over the long wooden tables, heart sinking rapidly at the thought—nearly half the kingdom had turned out for Arthur's coronation, and most had stuck around for the celebratory feast afterward—the dining hall stood packed wall-to-wall with nobles of every rank—Lord Rodney over at the far left table, already deep into his third goblet of wine, his cheeks turned ruddy from the drink—no, not him—too stocky—there was Gaius, a few seats down, caught up in conversation with Geoffrey—too rotund, and far too loyal to Camelot to keep silent on a matter like this—Sir Gaheris, and next to him, Sir Galahad—only recently knighted, and both far too short—and too zealously devoted to the pursuit against sorcery to let it alone had they seen him, besides—Sir Rowan, at the next table over, who seemed more interested in his plate than the present company—about the same height, but quite a bit thinner—across from him sat Lord Josef—much too old—

"Merlin?"

Merlin jumped, so badly he nearly dropped the pitcher in his hands—as it was, the wine within sloshed alarmingly—he felt a bit of it splash up over his fingers, but only distantly—when he wiped them dry on the front of his jacket, it was more instinctive than anything—he was a little busy at the moment, considering the man in front of him was—

"Lord Agravaine?"

"Ah—yes," Agravaine licked his lips—he didn't seem to know what he was doing. "Splendid feast, isn't it?"

"I—I suppose?" Merlin tried to keep the confusion out of his voice—tried not to let his feelings show on his face. "Did you—did you need something, Lord Agravaine?" He wrinkled his brow. "More wine?" He held the pitcher aloft—he didn't much like Agravaine—there was just something  _off_ about him—but Arthur had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he was to treat the lord with the greatest possible respect—and loathe as he always was to listen to Arthur, Merlin couldn't bring himself to make things any harder on his friend. Not now.

"Oh—oh, no," Agravaine seemed almost startled by the offer—likely not looking for any favors, then, but it wasn't like he ever took notice of a servant otherwise. "Er, no. Thank you, Merlin." He swallowed, and plucked a piece of lint off one luxurious velvet sleeve.

_Thank you?_

No, that wasn't right—Agravaine never bothered to thank anyone so far beneath him—and he hadn't kept his disdain for Merlin a secret, not by any means—spent every council meeting staring at him with the strangest expression on his face—always stepped a little closer when they passed in the corridors, just enough to ensure their shoulders brushed—Arthur always seemed conveniently blind to it—

"I—er—" Agravaine licked his lips again and, in the light of a thousand candles, burning on every table, Merlin could see sweat glistening brightly on his pale forehead. "—Merlin, I should like a word with you, if you please."

"A—" Merlin shifted his pitcher from one hand to the other and took a small step back. "—a word?" Unease pricked at him, and he tightened his grip on the pitcher in his hands—what would Lord Agravaine want with  _him_?

"Not here," Agravaine added—he threw a glance over his shoulder, and he didn't seem to like what he saw. "Perhaps we could take this somewhere more private?"

"I—" Another jolt of unease, stronger this time, melting to a thick, sour pool in the pit of his stomach—but—but Lord Agravaine looked— _desperate_ — "—I have to attend to Arthur." Yes— _Arthur_ —he seized gratefully upon the excuse—Agravaine wouldn't dare get in the way of his new king—

"Wait." Oh. Well, apparently he  _would_ , considering he'd just stepped in front of Merlin, and planted himself there like he didn't plan on moving anytime soon. "You _must_  hear this—Merlin, you must—it—" Agravaine seemed to hesitate, then come to a split-second decision—he leaned forward very suddenly, and so close, his lips brushed Merlin's ear. "—It has to do with Arthur."

_Arthur._

An awful chill swept over Merlin, insides flooding with something like ice—his blood froze in his veins, throat choked with frost.

It had to be something to do with Morgana—or maybe it was a new threat entirely—maybe the Saxons to the north—he'd been hearing things about them—or maybe it was something to do with Mordred—

Merlin clenched his jaw. "Lead the way."

Without another word, Agravaine turned and strode from the hall—Merlin kept pace easily, barely half a step behind, his mind a thousand miles ahead of the rest of him—it could be just another run-of-the-mill rogue sorcerer, out for revenge—it could be another king, seeking to seize Arthur's lands while he was still untested and inexperienced—or maybe that assassin in the Darkling Woods had an accomplice—maybe Morgana had a mole in the kingdom, and Agravaine had found out who it was—or maybe—

Agravaine drew to a stop before a massive, polished oak door—he slowly twisted the gleaming brass handle set in the shining wood, and threw it open, motioning for Merlin to follow him inside. He'd really meant it then, when he'd said  _somewhere more private_ —couldn't get much more private than his bedchamber.

Merlin stepped, a little warily, over the threshold, eyes sweeping every corner of the room—he'd been in here before, of course—one of the perks of being a servant—he could generally wander where he wished with little suspicion—but he hadn't gotten a good look before Elyan had passed by and spotted him—told him if he didn't get down to the training field, Arthur was likely to make him be the target—

The thought of Arthur dragged him from his musings, and he turned to face Agravaine—the lord had, without his notice, somehow, come up behind him and closed the door.

Merlin felt the back of his neck prickle, but he didn't protest—he had to know what the other man knew about Arthur, and he wouldn't get anywhere if he dragged things out.

"Oh, please, sit," Agravaine turned away from the door to face him, fingers still wrapped round the knob—he gestured to the flawless ebony desk in the center of the room, and the handsome, cushioned chairs pushed up on either side of it. "Make yourself comfortable."

Merlin followed his gaze and—

—he froze.

Agravaine was still standing between him and the door.

And draped over the back of the nearest chair was a rich purple traveling cloak.


	2. He's Got Me Down on Both Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I sold my soul to a three-piece,  
> And he told me I was holy,   
> He's got me down on both knees,  
> But it's the devil that's trying to hold me down."
> 
> \- Hold Me Down, Halsey
> 
> WARNING: Non-con begins in this chapter, so read at your own discretion.

The bolt. The bolt in the door. The bolt in the door just—just  _clicked_ , just  _snapped,_  just  _locked_ —locking him in, Agravaine was locking him in—he couldn't get out he couldn't get out  _he couldn't get out_ —he was trapped here and he couldn't escape and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and he couldn't speak and he couldn't think, and he couldn't look away from the cloak, its mud-spattered hem still hanging inches from the floor—and he couldn't—he couldn't  _breathe_ , and he couldn't—he couldn't—something in his throat, there was something in his throat—heavy and acidic and— _bile_ —and he reached on instinct for his own neck, hands fisting around the rough red kerchief wound round it, but there was no stopping the viscous, vile liquid flooding into his dry mouth—and he tried to push it down, push it back, but it wouldn't go anywhere, and it wouldn't do anything but sit there on his tongue, and it choked him—God, it choked him—and he couldn't breathe, and every time he tried, the air got lost on the way to his lungs, catching and snagging on the razor edges of his own terror because  _Agravaine had locked him in_  and _why had Agravaine locked him in_  and  _he couldn't get out_  and  _he couldn't escape_  and—

The heels of boots clacking against stone. A blurry face in front of him—no, a little bit above him, with the mouth twisted into a frown and a crease between thick, dark brows—and a voice he didn't know calling his name— _Merlin!—Merlin!—Merlin!—_ and a hand—a hand on his arm—warm, and firm, and just above his elbow— _Merlin, are you all right?_

"Are you—?" He could—he could speak again, suddenly—there was nothing in his mouth—and he wanted to spit just to be sure—but—and then he couldn't speak—the words replaced the bile behind his lips, sticking like tar everywhere they could—in the back of his throat and to the roof of his mouth and the tip of his tongue, because they didn't want to be said any more than he wanted to say to them, and he couldn't swallow them down and he couldn't cough them up, and then, all at once, they broke free, and tumbled full-tilt from his tongue. "Are you going to take me to Arthur?" His insides burned the instant he'd said it, and he wondered how soon the rest of him would burn as well.

"Take you to Arthur?" Agravaine repeated, and stepped back a little—the furrows in his forehead deepened and his large hand still hovered, a little hesitantly, around Merlin's arm, but he made no move to close the gap—and then something like comprehension entered his eyes, and his brow cleared. He shook his head, dark hair dragging down his cheek. "No, Merlin. Your secret is safe with me, I promise you that."

Merlin's heart thudded.  _Your secret is safe with me. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that. Your secret is safe with me. I promise you that._

_Sincere_. He thought maybe Agravaine might have even meant it.

_So where's the catch?_

"I—I use it only for Camelot," he blurted, because fear made him brave, or as brave as a man like him could be. "Only for Arthur. You must believe me."

"I do," Agravaine said—no hesitation in his voice, in his eyes, in his face. No second thoughts. Oh, gods, he really did mean it. "Come now, Merlin, sit down. You really don't look well, and I'm afraid we have something even more pressing to discuss."

_Arthur,_  Merlin thought, and he couldn't breathe all over again.

Agravaine ushered Merlin hastily across the room to the desk, his touch light but seemingly everywhere—just the slightest brush from the tips of his thick fingers, all along the warlock's shoulder, his spine, the small of his back.

It didn't occur to Merlin to move away, or protest the contact—he made it to the chair with the cloak still draped over the back, and dropped down gratefully into it, shaking legs finally receiving a rest.

Agravaine didn't sit down.

"Arth—Arthur?" Merlin smothered a cough into his hand, and forced himself to sit up straight.

Agravaine whipped round to look at him, so quickly his cloak swirled out around him in a great dark eddy—there was something suddenly, inexplicably sharp in his gaze. "I beg your pardon?" he said, and it sounded like a challenge.

"Arthur," Merlin repeated, as clearly and loudly as he could—Gaius had been getting on him lately for "mumbling". "You said—you said this was to do with Arthur." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Oh." Agravaine relaxed—and Merlin couldn't think why the mention of his nephew had gotten him so riled to begin with—he'd just have to put that away for later—he'd been doing that a lot lately.

Agravaine rounded the desk, and lowered himself into the empty seat waiting on the other side with a quiet sigh. "Yes. Arthur." He shook his head, lips curling up into a small, grim smile. "I can't think how you've remained at court all this time. At his side. How you've managed to deceive him, Merlin."

"If we could stick to the matter at hand," Merlin interjected sharply, and dug his fingers deep into the cushioned armrest, a tiny groove appearing in the lush velveteen fabric—if he closed his eyes, Arthur's face swam to the forefront of his mind—shocked, shattered, features frozen in his grief, the way he'd looked when Morgana had made her first open bid for the throne—he could not bear to let Arthur hurt like that again—could not bear to be the one who caused him that hurt this time.

"All these years, and Arthur's never discovered," Agravaine said, so softly it sounded almost as if he was speaking to himself. "You must have much practice in keeping secrets."

_More than I ever wanted._ Merlin didn't say it.

"You must understand the difficulty in keeping such secrets," Agravaine waited until Merlin met his eyes before he continued. "You must understand the difficulty _I_  will have, in keeping such a secret."

Oh, so here it was—now they came to the heart of it—it wasn't about Arthur at all, was it? It had  _never_  been about Arthur—Agravaine only wished to know what he could get from this—every bit the self-centered, supercilious lord he'd seemed the day he arrived in Camelot.

"What do you want?" Merlin demanded tiredly—and a little flatly, truth be told.

Agravaine looked at him and—and  _laughed_. "Think on it a moment, Merlin. I'm sure you can figure it out." He settled back in his seat with a small, satisfied smile still twisting his lips; there was nothing in his face, and nothing in his voice, that could even begin to explain the meaning in his words.

"—I don't—" Merlin shook his head. "—I don't know what you're—"

"Don't you?" Agravaine countered quietly, and stood from his seat—he strode, every step steady and measured and deliberate, over to Merlin. He leaned down slowly, bent at the waist, and took Merlin's chin in his hands. He kissed him.

Merlin didn't move—he didn't—he didn't know what to  _do_ —he could taste the rich, red wine from the feast on the other man's lips, feel the other man's broad fingers, warm on his face, the seat underneath him, the thick velvet of the armrest scrunching beneath his own clenched fingers, but it didn't—it didn't make sense—it couldn't be  _real_ —Agravaine's other hand slipping downward, fumbling momentarily with the thin, fraying hem of Merlin's worn tunic, and wide fingers skimming lightly over the bare skin beneath, but it couldn't be real—Agravaine's tongue, hot and wet, clashing fiercely with his own, but it couldn't be real—Agravaine's body against his, pressing ever deeper into him, but it couldn't be real, it couldn't be real, his fingers sliding easily down the naked, slick skin of Merlin's chest, but it couldn't be real—the heel of his open hand grinding into Merlin's groin—

— _it was real_ , and the revelation jolted him, and he—

"NO!"

Merlin shoved Agravaine away—magic, or brute force, or some strange, adrenaline-fueled mix of both—he didn't know, he couldn't tell, and he didn't care to.

He pushed himself to his feet, stumbling slightly in his haste. "Don't touch me." He lifted a hand, palm out, fingers spread, in silent challenge. "Don't you  _ever_ touch me like that again."

"If I am to keep your secret," Agravaine said, a strange sort of smile playing about his lips, "I do deserve some form of recompense." His gaze flicked down, roving slowly— _lecherously_ —over Merlin.

" _No,"_  the warlock repeated, hand still out and a sudden, furious heat flooding him—his insides writhed, like a nest of maddened snakes, at the mere thought. "I will  _not_ be used like that. You will keep  _away_  from me."

"Forgive me, Merlin," Agravaine raised his eyebrows, but his odd little smile never once wavered. "I had no idea you were so eager for Arthur to know of your…" His smile grew a centimeter. "… _abilities_."

Merlin froze.

"I had hoped," Agravaine continued—and no, it wasn't a smile, and it never had been—it was a smirk, sharp and vicious and so, so satisfied, "we could come to an agreement upon this, Merlin. I'm only sorry I was so mistaken."

— _you must understand the difficulty I will have—in keeping such a secret—_

Everything made sense now, and Merlin forgot how to breathe.

"No matter," Agravaine's voice was quiet, yet it seemed to carry to every corner of the vast room. "It will be easy, won't it, to rectify this misunderstanding?"

"—No—" Merlin's upraised hand began to shake. "—no—you can't do this—you  _can't_ —"

"I'm afraid," the words held an air of utmost solemnity, but the smirk still clinging doggedly to the corner of his lip belied it, "I can see no other option, Merlin."

"Arthur won't—" his knees had taken up the trembling now, too, so badly he could scarcely stand. "He won't listen! He won't listen to you! He  _trusts_ me!" The statement gave him strength, and he found he could stand a little straighter, having said it.

"Oh? And who do you think he trusts  _more_?" Agravaine stepped closer. "A lord of the court? His last blood relative? The one who's been there for him since that heartless tyrant he called  _father_  went  _senile_?" His smirk slipped, twisting into an ugly, savage snarl. "Or his poor, bumbling, silly little muck-up  _servant_  who can't even shine his boots right?"

_You're wrong,_  Merlin wanted to say—he wanted to yell, wanted to shout, wanted to  _scream_ , but the words wouldn't come, and Agravaine—

—Agravaine was  _right._

Arthur trusted Merlin, he  _did_ —expected him at council meetings, and asked his opinion afterward, entrusted him with keys and kingdom secrets servants shouldn't even know existed, dragged him along on quests and hunting trips and rescue missions, looked to him for advice, laid himself and his feelings bare—oh, yes, Arthur trusted Merlin, but—

—but he trusted Agravaine  _more_.

Agravaine could go to Arthur—he could do it—walk right back into the feasting hall, ask him for a word—pull him away from the festivities, break the news, and Arthur—

Arthur would  _believe_  him.

_Because he trusted Agravaine more_.

And Merlin—

"Wait."

— _Merlin didn't have a choice._

Merlin stepped forward—and his legs wouldn't stop shaking and his hands wouldn't stop shaking and he didn't have a choice and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and he couldn't stop shaking and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and  _he didn't have a choice—_

"If I do this," he said slowly, and every word burned, and his own voice came from a long way away, "you won't tell Arthur. Swear that to me.  _Swear it_."

"My lips," Agravaine's awful smirk returned, wider than ever—he leaned so close, Merlin smelled the sweet wine still on his breath, "are  _sealed_."

"Then—" He didn't have a choice he didn't have a choice Arthur trusted Agravaine more  _he didn't have a choice_. "—I will do it."

He couldn't stop shaking and he didn't have a choice and Arthur trusted Agravaine more and he didn't have a choice and  _lord of the court_ and _last blood relative_ and  _poor bumbling silly little muck-up servant_  and  _can't even shine his boots right_  and he didn't have a choice.

He kissed Agravaine.

Just a smooth, weightless brush of lips on lips, and he tried to leave it at that—hands fisted at his sides and head turned away—and he prayed it would be enough, but a heavy hand clamped down and cupped the back of his head—pressed him deeper, dragged him closer—Agravaine's mouth crashed furiously against his, in a sharp, scorching collision—he jerked backward on instinct, but behind him stood only cold stone, and something inside him twisted up so tight, it  _hurt_ —and Agravaine didn't let up—didn't slow down—only pushed him harder—he retaliated—reflex, automatic, uncontrolled, unintentional—kissing back with a little too much teeth.

Agravaine's hand slipped out from under his head—so suddenly he held in a hiss when his skull struck the wall—strong fingers closed around his arm—forcing him fast against the wall—his pulse picked up speed at the new position—he forgot how to breathe all over again—and Agravaine's other hand dipped lower, grinding down between Merlin's legs—he ducked his head, lips grazing down Merlin's jaw—the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat—teeth dragging, unexpectedly gently, along his collarbone—his fingers never stilled, squeezing and rubbing and pushing with an almost feverish intensity—a shade of force behind the touch now, as he rammed his hand in— _oh_ —

A thrill shot through Merlin, sudden and staticky and so strong, he actually shuddered, eyes slipping closed— _oh, God, that was_ —he couldn't help it—he moaned aloud, long and low—he slid a little farther down the wall—he  _melted_ under Agravaine's touch—

_Agravaine._

Merlin's skin  _burned_ against the smooth, cool stone of the bedroom wall—fire flared to life in his stomach, every inch of him consumed by heat—and warm, wet lips, pressing against his ear, and a sultry whisper, just loud enough to hear— _oh—so you do like it a bit rough—don't you, Merlin_ —and the flames gave a great roar inside him—sparks shot up into his throat—and he ground his teeth together, and hissed at the man in front of him.

" _Get. Off. Me."_

"You must be careful," Agravaine pressed a quick kiss to Merlin's earlobe, "one might think you'd never experienced the…" He drew back, and paused a moment, lips curling into a smile, "… _pleasures_  of the body before."

The slightly sensual emphasis on the word made Merlin flush, and he turned his head away, cheek hot against the wall—and Agravaine must have noticed, because he could see, from the corner of his eye, a thick dark brow arching up.

"Haven't you?" Agravaine pulled his hand up to grasp Merlin's chin, tugging upward, forcing them to lock eyes. "Pretty little thing like you—I'm sure the stable boys can't keep their hands off you—to say nothing of the knights—"

" _Arthur's knights are honorable men!"_ Merlin snarled—he pushed off the wall, pushed out against Agravaine—how could the lord be so bold as to even  _suggest_ —? Scorching rage seared his throat at the thought. "They would  _never_ —not unless I—!"

"Are you _really_  so inexperienced?" Agravaine drew back to look at Merlin, a gleam in his dark eyes. He put a hand to Merlin's chest, driving him back into the wall. "Am I truly to be the first to teach you the… _satisfactions_ …" His hand slid back down, rubbing anew at Merlin's groin. "…of the flesh?"

Merlin spat at him—he probably would have cursed the man into oblivion otherwise, which would have made everything about a thousand times worse. "I don't want any  _'satisfaction'_  at  _your_ hands."

"You should know better than to make promises you won't be able to keep." Agravaine shoved his hand inward—suddenly, sharply—and the—the  _pressure_ —

Merlin sucked in a breath—his insides buzzed, demanding more—he bit down on his bottom lip, teeth tearing so viciously into soft pink flesh he began to bleed, and clenched his teeth together, pressing the palm of his hand flat to the wall—the polished, even stone against his skin grounded him, for a moment, and stiffened his resolve. He would not find pleasure in this.  _He would not find pleasure in this_.

The touch glided upward now, tugging light but insistent at the waistband of his trousers—he tensed— _no_ —the word tumbled reflexively from his lips, little more than a strangled gasp— _stop_ — _don't_ —but Agravaine didn't—he  _didn't_  stop—not until he had his hand down the front of Merlin's pants, and even then, he didn't stop—he thrust his hand, hard, into Merlin's cock— _too hard_ —Merlin stifled a cry—it _hurt_ —he hadn't expected it to hurt _so much_ —and Agravaine kept going—he just kept going—his first two fingers shifted and slid—slid up  _inside_  Merlin—he didn't know if it was pleasure or pain or some awful blend of the two, but he'd never felt anything like it, and he couldn't keep quiet anymore, and he didn't know what sound he made—a moan, a yell, a whimper, a wordless, desperate plea for it to just  _stop—he didn't know_ , but he knew Agravaine's fingers were— _invading, defiling, polluting, profaning, spoiling, violating,_   _ruining_ —if this went on—if this went on, Merlin would be— _nothing_ —and that was  _all_  he knew—his magic blazed in his veins—aching to burst free—but he couldn't—he pushed it down deep, and locked it away—he _couldn't_ —he didn't have a choice—Arthur—Agravaine would tell Arthur—and Arthur trusted Agravaine  _more_ —

" _Shh."_  Agravaine bowed his head to put his mouth back on Merlin's, and licked away the blood beading on the warlock's bottom lip. "Hush now, Merlin, there's no need for all that noise."

Thick fingers twisted and curled inside Merlin, and he couldn't keep back a gasp—and  _he didn't know_  if the fire within him was borne of fury or a different sort of  _heat_ altogether—and  _he hated it—_

"I've told you to  _keep quiet_ , and I expect you to do so," Agravaine hissed, and his fingers stilled—and Merlin didn't know if that was better or worse or somewhere in between, but another sound slipped from between tightly clenched teeth—and  _he hated it_.

"Do you think you can be quiet for me, Merlin?"

And something—

— _invaded, defiled, polluted, profaned, spoiled, violated, ruined—_

—something inside Merlin _broke_.

" _Not this_ ," he whispered, as stinging tears turned the whole world blurry. " _Please,_  not this."

— _nothing—_

"Would you prefer I bring this to Arthur's attention?"

" _No,"_ Merlin bit his lip again, to keep it from trembling. "No—can't you—can't you find another way—something else—anything else—not this— _not this_ … _please_ …" He blinked, to keep the tears from brimming over.

" _This_ ," Abruptly— _painfully_ —Agravaine pushed his fingers upward, "is  _all_  that I want."

And Merlin—

— _lord of the court last blood relative poor bumbling silly little muck-up servant can't even shine his boots right invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined—_

—Merlin _didn't have a choice_.

Because Arthur trusted Agravaine  _more_.

* * *

"Where the  _hell_  were you?!" Arthur made sure to shut the door before he said the words, turning sharply on his heel to fix his servant with a glare—somewhere behind him, wood collided with stone in a deafening symphony, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the noise, not when Merlin just _stood_  there in front of him, looking as soused as could be, dark hair mussed and blue scarf horribly awry, eyes distant and dazed—for gods' sakes, he wasn't even _trying_  to defend himself! Even  _Merlin_  couldn't be such an insubordinate idiot as to think nothing of sneaking off from the coronation, to _imbibe_ , no less! Really, Arthur should just leave him in the stocks the whole night through—it would serve him right—but word would get out, and Gwaine would likely murder him, or at least give it an impressive go.

The thought of the rebellious knight pulled Arthur firmly back to the matter at hand as he recalled—

"Even  _Gwaine_ managed to stay sober!" He emphasized the man's name and strode across the room, halting in front of Merlin. "Doesn't that tell you  _something_? Of all the nights for you to pull this!"

Merlin finally spoke— _finally_ —and that was absolutely  _not_  relief rushing through Arthur—his servant's silence had _not_  been eerie or concerning, no, it had been  _wonderful_ and  _refreshing_ , and—

"Sire," Merlin stepped forward, and unfastened Arthur's cloak, "I wasn't—I didn't have any—"

—and he had the _nerve_  to  _deny_  it?!

" _No?"_  Arthur demanded. "Then  _where were you_?"

"I—" Merlin bit his lip—caught in the lie—and looking almost surprised by that, like he'd actually thought he could get Arthur to swallow anything less than the truth. "—I'm sorry, Sire, I—it won't happen again." He tugged the cloak from Arthur's shoulders, and flung it onto the bed—the unmade bed—a halfway decent servant would have at least tried to tidy things up before the feast—and a halfway decent servant wouldn't have  _left the feast_   _to get drunk_ , either.

Arthur pressed his lips together. "See that it doesn't."

Merlin only nodded, and set about undoing the clasps in his ceremonial mail.

"Well, I  _do_  hope you  _enjoyed_ yourself," Arthur added bitingly, "because I expect you half an hour early tomorrow with an additional breakfast. I'll be dining with the Lord Agravaine first thing to discuss the situation in Tintagel," he explained, "which I mentioned _yesterday_ ," pointedly, at the servant's bewildered look—honestly, did the man _never_  listen to him? " _Three_  times."

Merlin didn't even have the grace for one of his sheepish smiles. "A-actually, Sire, I need to—"

"I don't want any of your excuses, Merlin," Arthur broke in, a bit sharply, and held up a hand to silence the sudden stream of protests. "And I'll have  _none_ of your usual languishing tomorrow, either."

" _No,"_  Merlin said, a little louder this time, "no, that's not—" He'd completely left off loosing Arthur's armor, but his fingers never quit the metal links—all at once, he drew himself up and dragged in a breath, oddly as though steeling himself, and continued. "I need to tell you something."

"I'm well aware you are going to be hungover come morning, and I don't feel a jot sorry for you." As he spoke, Arthur gestured impatiently for Merlin to continue with his mail—it was far too late for all this nonsense, and the sooner he collapsed into his bed and forgot the entire night, the better—but the servant wouldn't look at him anymore.

" _No_ , I—I  _don't_ —it's—it's Agravaine—he—" Merlin stopped, swallowed, and reached for his scarf, tangling his fingers up in the rough blue cloth. "—he—" He stopped again.

Arthur rolled his eyes—at  _this_  rate, he wouldn't be getting to bed until sunrise. "Spit it out, Merlin." Impatience edged his tone—a bit more than the situation necessarily demanded, he knew, but he was too exhausted to regret it. He scrubbed a hand roughly over his tired eyes, and stifled a groan as the silence stretched on—why couldn't the idiot just  _say_ whatever the hell he was getting himself so worked up for—?

"—he's worried about you."

Arthur dropped his hands, and lifted his head to look at Merlin. "…What?"

"Agravaine—Agravaine's worried about you." Merlin still wouldn't look at him—kept his head down as he resumed his work on the armor, quick fingers leaping from buckle to buckle with the haste of much practice. "Asked me to make sure you were all right."

"He  _did_?" Doubt flooded Arthur at the words—of course he knew Agravaine _cared_  for him, in his own sort of strange, Agravaine-ish way, but his uncle had made it clear to all that he was not an affectionate or demonstrative sort of man—down to business and straight to the point, that was his way, no talk of feelings and such—which suited Arthur just fine, of course, but the thought of Agravaine expressing his concern so freely—to  _Merlin_ , of all people—the two had never quite taken to each other in the way Arthur had hoped they might—above all, he just couldn't get his head around the idea that they'd had a properly civil conversation. About  _his own wellbeing_ , if Merlin was to be believed.

Then the doubt washed away in a strong deluge of sudden warmth.

What on earth had he ever done to deserve the respect, the regard, the _loyalty_  Agravaine had shown him since he'd become regent? Even on the days when duty weighed too heavily upon him, and he thought he'd surely crumple and collapse beneath the burden, he could always count on his uncle to stand with arms out, ready and willing to bear it with him. Truly, he had done nothing to warrant the allegiance of such a great man.

"Thank you, Merlin," he said impulsively, his previous irritation receding rapidly in light of the servant's report, "for telling me this. I will be sure to set his mind at ease."

Merlin smiled—it looked slightly strained, maybe the wine was beginning to wear off—and pulled the coat of mail up over Arthur's head. He took the armor, and laid it carefully over the bare stand in the corner, before he spoke again.

"Glad to hear it, Sire."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOAKAY do you know how much SHIT this chapter gave me I literally had to beat this fucker into submission with a fucking STICK just to get it written. Also I realized like right after I finished that Agravaine sticks his fingers in dry, but I didn't care enough to change it. also I have written Arthur's POV a grand total of once, so dear God, please go easy on me.


	3. Love is Like Being Fucked With a Knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The books, sad songs, and cinemas,  
> They all lied, lied, lied,  
> Why didn't anyone tell me,  
> Love is like being fucked with a knife?
> 
> \- Flowers of Flesh and Blood, Nicole Dollanganger

Merlin didn't know when it hit him—but Merlin didn't know— _anything_ —anymore—every corridor and staircase and ceiling and floor and window and door looked the same and every step hurt and every breath hurt and every thought hurt and he didn't know where he was and he didn't know where he was going and he didn't know anything and maybe he wasn't really here—maybe he wasn't really real—maybe he never had been—maybe nothing in the entire world was real—he didn't know where he was, because he didn't know anything, but he thought he might have been somewhere between Arthur's chambers and his own but then he didn't know where he was again and he thought maybe he took a wrong turn or maybe nothing in the entire world was real and then he was standing in front of the door to Gaius' rooms—and he knew he needed to push it open and walk inside but he didn't know if he could lift his hands—he didn't know much of anything anymore but he knew enough to know that his arms were shaking and his legs were shaking and if he wasn't mistaken, then the rest of him was shaking, too, and he needed to go inside because Gaius would be waiting for him—and it hit him, then, that he could—

—he could go to Gaius.

He  _could_ go to Gaius. Gaius would be waiting up for him, and Gaius would listen to him, and Gaius would believe him, and Gaius would understand him, and he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew that was  _real_.

Gaius carried all of his secrets.

And he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew if he asked, Gaius would gladly carry one more.

Merlin opened the door—oh, so he _could_  lift his hands, though they trembled like the leaves on the trees on a cold night in the Darkling Woods—and went inside—and he had to stop, and lean against the door to shut it again, and thousands of miles away from him, it clicked. Everything was a thousand miles away from him. Or maybe  _he_  was a thousand miles away from everything, or maybe he wasn't real, or maybe it was everything else that wasn't real, or maybe a thousand miles weren't real.

And he looked up and Gaius' lips were moving but everything was a thousand miles away from him, or he was a thousand miles away from everything, or he wasn't real or everything else wasn't real or a thousand miles weren't real or—

Fingers closed around his arm—

— _a hand on his arm warm and firm and just above his elbow—_

"N-no," he said, and it came out strangled—he jerked against the grip—fought it—hands on him and then there would be hands inside him and he'd have to use his magic only he couldn't use his magic because then Agravaine would tell Arthur and then  _Arthur_ would know about his magic and that could never happen—never ever—not even to get Agravaine's mouth off his mouth or to keep Agravaine's tongue from sliding, wet and warm, over his own and a cold wall on his warm naked back and fingers in his mouth and fingers up inside him and fingers so far down his throat he thought he was going to throw up and slick silk sheets under his skin and everything would hurt and he'd have to use his magic only he couldn't use his magic because then Agravaine would tell Arthur and then Arthur would know about his magic and that could never happen, never ever, because Arthur didn't trust him  _enough_ and—

His name—someone said his name—someone said his name, over and over and over—and it came from a thousand miles away—and a face, so familiar with all its lines and wrinkles and— _Gaius_ —

Merlin stopped.

There wouldn't be hands inside him there wouldn't be a mouth on his mouth or a tongue over his tongue or a wall on his back or fingers in his mouth or fingers anywhere else or sheets under his skin and nothing would hurt because Gaius wouldn't let it.

"Merlin?"

Merlin. That was—that was him. That was his name. That was his name, and somebody else knew it. He was real, after all.

"—I—"

Everything was real. Everything was real, and  _he_  was real, and a thousand miles were real, and his hands, still shaking like the leaves in the Darkling Woods, were real, too, and the sour taste at the back of his mouth was real, and the fire crackling in the hearth on the other side of the room was real, and Gaius was real and everything was  _so real—_ the candles burned too brightly and the fire burned too brightly and everything burned too brightly and a thousand miles wasn't nearly far enough after all—and all the colors in all the world were in this room, blazing red and blue and black and white and green and yellow and orange and purple and a kaleidoscope of everything and nothing and everything again—and everything was real and the sound of his own breathing scared him in how _real_  it was—

"Merlin?"

Gaius said his name again, and there was something strange in his voice now.

"—I—" He tried to speak, but it—it was so  _loud_ , his own voice—and he didn't like it—but— "—I didn't mean—" He winced, and brought his hands up to his ears—his fingers jerked and shuddered against the sides of his head. "—sorry."

"Slow down, Merlin," Gaius said—and that didn't make any sense, because he was standing still. "Have a seat, and let me have a look at you."

"—I'm—" The words stuck in his throat, and he winced again, and pushed them harder—but when they finally came out, they weren't the words he wanted to say. "—I'm  _fine_ , Gaius." He didn't want to say that—he didn't  _mean_  to say that—

"I'll be the judge of that," Gaius said, in his firmest voice, and guided Merlin to his chair at the table—it hurt—sitting down  _hurt_ —hurt like Agravaine's fingers were still somewhere inside him, pushing and shoving and twisting and invading and defiling and polluting and profaning and spoiling and violating and  _ruining_ —

There was a plate of food in front of him, suddenly, and he didn't know when it had gotten there, and Gaius must have seen him looking at it, because suddenly, there was a fork in his hand, and Gaius was telling him to eat, and still speaking in his firmest voice.

Merlin curled his fingers around the fork, so cold and heavy in his hands—the firelight glinted strangely off the metal, a thousand tiny dots of striking radiance.  _Real._

Warm fingers prodded at his head, carding slowly through his hair— _only Gaius,_  he told himself, and held the fork tighter because when he did, the sharp silver tines dug into his skin and his hands didn't shake anymore.

The back of his head hurt when Gaius touched it—like a bruise—he winced, and jerked away on reflex—the space between his legs throbbed with the motion, and he winced again.

"I suspected as much." Gaius pursed his lips. "You've hit your head."

"No," he said at once, because he  _didn't_ —but—

— _the sharp crack of his head against the wall as Agravaine's hands moved farther down—_

"—o-oh," he said. "I did. Not—not hard."

_Hard enough to hurt_ , he wanted to say, but didn't.

"Headache?" Gaius took Merlin's chin in his hands, rough and wrinkled fingers startlingly gentle, and pale, steady eyes searching Merlin's own. "Dizziness? Confusion?"

"N-no." Merlin shifted slightly in his seat, edgy under the scrutiny, and smothered a gasp as the pain flared again.

" _Liar,"_  Gaius said sharply, undeceived, but let go of his chin. "Where else?"

"Nowhere." He dropped his hand to his lap—the searing burn still scorched, under his fingers and beneath his clothes and between his legs and he wanted it to stop and he wanted it out of him and he wanted he didn't know  _what_ he wanted—but not this—never this—never,  _ever_  this—hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own and a cold wall against his warm naked back—

"What happened?" Gaius, ever skeptical, arched his infamous eyebrow. "Where were you?"

"—I—"

Hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own and a cold wall against his warm naked back and fingers in his mouth and fingers up inside him so far up inside him it hurt and invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined and fingers down his throat fingers so far down his throat he thought he was going to throw up and slick silk sheets under his skin and everything hurt and he couldn't stop it and he didn't have a choice and he just wanted it to stop and invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined and he could tell Gaius because Gaius would listen to him and Gaius would believe him and Gaius would understand him and Gaius would know he hadn't had a choice and Gaius would know what to do because Gaius always knew what to do and Merlin opened his mouth to tell him—

—Gaius would  _believe_  him—

— _hands inside him and a mouth on his mouth and a tongue sliding wet and warm over his own_ —

—but—

— _invaded defiled polluted profaned spoiled violated ruined_ —and Agravaine's fingers twisting and turning up inside him and—

Merlin tasted the truth in his mouth. He imagined letting it fall from his tongue. How it would sound hanging in the air. How Gaius might look at him when he said the words— _Agravaine knows about my magic—Agravaine knows about my magic, Gaius, and he said he was going to tell Arthur unless I—_

— _unless I—_

Merlin burned. Beneath his clothes, he burned, and between his legs, he burned, and suddenly, he thought he might die with the absolute and indescribable  _shame_ of it.

_I fucked him._

And Gaius would—Gaius would look at him in that way he did, mouth pinching up in that thin little line as he pressed his lips together—and his voice, so sharp and brittle, the way it always sounded when Merlin let him down— _I see,_  he would say, and the unspoken condemnation in his tone just might break Merlin.

_I had to,_ Merlin would add, desperate,  _I had to, Gaius, he said he would tell Arthur if I didn't—I didn't have a choice—Gaius, I didn't have a choice—_

Gaius' mouth would go even thinner.  _You should have been more careful._

_I know._ Merlin would hang his head.

_How many times, Merlin?_ Gaius would demand, fire in his tone.  _How many times must I tell you to be more careful with your magic? Now you've gotten yourself into a proper mess, and you've no one to blame but yourself._

_I know,_  Merlin would say, sure he was shrinking, smaller and smaller and smaller, in his seat.

_You should not have done that, Merlin,_ Gaius would say, ice in his eyes,  _you should not have let him discover your magic. And you should never have agreed to bed him like you're some street whore—_

Merlin winced at the word, and shook his head. No. He pressed his lips together. No, he was—he was  _nothing_  like that. He hadn't—he hadn't _chosen_  to do it—he hadn't  _wanted_  to—he had resisted, he had protested— _and you also moaned and melted beneath his touch,_  said a small and horribly honest voice in the back of his mind.  _You didn't say a single word, but you might as well have begged for more. You were so hard for him._

No, no, no, that—that wasn't—no, that wasn't true, he hadn't wanted it, he hadn't wanted it, he  _hadn't,_  he hadn't chosen it, he'd said no, he'd resisted, he'd protested,  _he'd said no_ —

_But had he said it loud enough?_

He could have—he could have stopped it—if he'd wanted to—if he'd _really_ wanted to—he could have ended it before it had even begun—before the hands all over him and the hands inside him and he could have stopped it he could have stopped it he could have stopped it from the moment Agravaine kissed him that first time, he could have stopped it—the rich, red wine he himself hadn't tasted on his lips, and the strong fingers cupping his cheek and the rough, hungry hands grinding into his groin and the—the feeling it had put in his stomach—like sparks, like fire, like—like  _heat_ —he could have stopped it, he could have done a damn sight more than just stopped it, he'd had the power, hadn't he, building in his chest and burning in his veins and searing in the center of his palms and he could have used it, he could have, he really could have—he could have killed Agravaine, and it would have been so easy, and no one would have ever known it was him, no one would have ever even suspected—that assassin, in the Darkling Woods, he'd killed him, hadn't he? Snapped his neck without ever touching him at all, raw fury fueling him longer than any spell—that could have been Agravaine tonight. If he'd wanted it to be. Agravaine, broken and bloody, eyes wide and terrified, flat on his back on the ground as the last of the life bled from his body and he realized how wrong he had been, to seek his satisfaction in Emrys himself—

"—Merlin?"

_Gaius._

No, no, he couldn't—he could not tell Gaius. He could never, ever tell Gaius.

"Assassin," Merlin heard his own voice from a thousand miles away. Everything was a thousand miles away from him. Or maybe he was a thousand miles away from everything.

"Another one?" Gaius looked at him.

And Merlin nodded and he swallowed the truth and he could swear the sharp, honest edges sliced his throat all the way down because  _he could not tell Gaius_ , he could  _never_  tell Gaius, he could never tell  _anyone_. He'd resisted. He'd protested.  _He'd said no._  But it didn't matter.

He hadn't said it loud enough.

* * *

"Merlin, you _idiot_!"

_Breathe._ Breathe, that was it, that was all he had to do, breathe, just breathe, in and out and in again, breathe, he had to breathe, he couldn't breathe, he needed to breathe, he needed to breathe, he had to breathe, that was all he had to do, and he couldn't he couldn't  _he couldn't fucking breathe_ when he had the  _entire castle_  sitting on top of his chest—crumbling, his lungs were crumbling—his lungs were  _crumbling_  and _collapsing_  and  _he couldn't breathe_  and Agravaine was there right there right in front of him and  _hands all over him hands all over him hands all over him_  he was shaking and he couldn't stop he was shaking like the leaves on the trees on a cold night in the Darkling Woods again and Arthur was yelling and yelling and yelling but everything was a thousand miles away from him and he didn't hear a single word.

"—is there anything you're  _actually capable_  of doing—?!"

_Breathe._ That was it. That was all he had to do. Breathe. Just breathe. In and out and in again. Breathe.  _Don't think, just breathe._

"—are you even  _listening_ to me—?!"

_Breathe._ That was it. That was all he had to do.

"S-sorry, Sire." Move. He needed—he needed to move. He stepped forward, to put the breakfasts he'd brought down on the table, but his hands were empty and he didn't know where the dishes had gone and—and—

_Oh._

Food. All over the floor. Sausages. Bread. Cheese. Berries. Butter. Wine. All over the floor. He was standing on a plate. He stepped back.

"Sorry, Sire," he repeated mechanically, and he picked the napkins up off the table and went down to his knees and started to clear it up.

Agravaine handed him a stray, shattered shard of a delicate porcelain plate. His fingers brushed Merlin's wrist. His hand lingered a little too long against Merlin's skin, and Merlin went still and silent and didn't dare pull away. Agravaine smiled, and let go, and  _crumbling._ His lungs were crumbling.

* * *

"Tintagel."

"What?" Merlin hauled Arthur's armor off its stand—it gleamed in the sunlight like the fork last night had gleamed in the firelight—a thousand tiny dots of striking radiance—but this time he couldn't find any sharp edges to cut into his flesh, to hurt him, to bring him back to himself. His wrist burned where Agravaine had touched it.

"Tintagel," Arthur repeated, and impatience edged his tone. "Do you think Gaius will be of any use to the people of Tintagel?"

Oh. Oh, yes, Tintagel—the breakfast with—with Agravaine— _breathe, breathe, all you have to do is breathe, that's it_ —that was—that—Tintagel. They had discussed Tintagel. And the strange plague striking its people down. Yes. Merlin swallowed, and let the armor fall in a shining silver pile on Arthur's bed. "Of course. Gaius is very skilled. He's never failed yet."

He spent a moment sorting through the sparkling heap for the mail coat. When he dragged it out at last, Arthur obligingly raised his arms, and Merlin let it fall gently over the blond head. He smoothed out the links with the flat of his hand. The metal was cool and solid and _familiar_  under his palm. Arthur. It felt like Arthur. He could breathe.

* * *

That night, Gaius packed up his things in a bag of fraying brown cloth, by candlelight, patted Merlin on the shoulder with a firm and warm and ever-reassuring hand, and told him to look after himself.

When Merlin woke up the next morning, Gaius had already gone—Leon and Percival with him, Arthur's orders—the main road to Tintagel was no stranger to bandits—and there was a bowl of porridge on the table in Merlin's usual place. It had gone cold by the time he spotted it, but he smiled at the sight of it anyway—then he wondered if the bowl would still be there if Gaius knew the truth, knew what he'd done the night before last, and suddenly he couldn't think of a single thing to smile about.

* * *

It still hurt to walk. At least the awful burn between his legs had died down to a kind of dull throb—painful, yes, but manageable—and he weaved his way through the castle as quickly as he could, biting back a wince whenever the tender area gave a twinge. He rounded the corner and hastened down the next hall—empty as the last three—most of the servants weren't up and about yet—per Arthur's whims, he was usually one of the first to rise, and one of the last to retire—if he could drag the prat out of bed quick enough, he might have time to get to that armor he'd  _sworn_  he'd polished yesterday, and Arthur would be none the wiser and—

_Agravaine._

Merlin stopped. He didn't—he didn't want to—he didn't _mean_  to—and he hated that he did— _keep going,_  he told himself, as his heart hammered so hard in his chest, he wondered if it would burst clear through his shirt— _just keep going_ — _just breathe, and keep going_ —but his legs wouldn'tlisten to him and Agravaine was looking right at him—getting closer closer closer  _closer_ —turn around, then, that was what he would do, turn around, double back, the longer route to Arthur's chambers would work just fine—

" _Merlin."_

The word was scarcely a whisper. Barely even a breath. Loud as a scream in the silence of the deserted corridor.

Merlin tightened his hold on Arthur's breakfast—he didn't need to go making a habit of dropping meals—he'd gotten yelled at enough this week—and pressed his lips together and lifted his chin and pretended he hadn't heard and—

—a hand. On his wrist. A hand on his wrist and it hurt and he jerked away on instinct because he didn't know what else to do and a thousand miles away from him the tray clattered to the floor because everything was a thousand miles away from him and  _get off get off get off don't touch me stop touching me stop_  and Agravaine wouldn't he  _wouldn't_ stop he wouldn't let him go, fingers digging, mercilessly deep, down into his skin, still bruised beneath the sleeve from when Agravaine had pinned his hands to the wall while he kissed him and  _let go,_  he wouldn't let go,  _please, just let go—_

" _Stop."_ The sharp, imperious hiss, hot breath just tickling Merlin's ear, sounded nothing short of deadly. Agravaine tightened his hold, and leaned ever closer. "I expect you in my chambers tonight.  _Do not_  disappoint me." And then—

—and then he let go.

Just—just like that—he let go just like that, his hands there and gone in an instant, and then he swept past Merlin and off down the corridor without another word, without even a second glance, and Merlin hated the shaky breath of nervous, incredulous relief that left his mouth because it was done, it was over, it was finished, Agravaine was gone, Agravaine was—

—Agravaine was—

— _wait._

Merlin spun sharply on his heel. "I'm sorry,  _what?"_  Louder than he meant it to be, but he didn't care—rage beat back fear in an instant, curling up and eddying around, like thick smoke, in the pit of his stomach. Did Agravaine—did Agravaine actually have the _nerve_  to  _think_ —?

Agravaine paused—for a moment, Merlin thought he was going to just _ignore_ —but—no, he turned, one eyebrow cocked. "I beg your pardon?" He stepped a little closer.

Merlin reflexively stepped back. " _No._  You _can't_  do this. I did what you asked of me, but I won't do anything more. I  _won't_."

The second eyebrow went the same way of the first. "I believe we discussed this during our last encounter, Merlin. I don't like to repeat myself."

"We—we made a deal, yes, but this was _not_  part of it!" The faintest shred of fear stirred again in Merlin's chest, but he crushed it under a swift and savage blow. It would not happen again. He would  _not let it_  happen again.

"Forgive me, Merlin, but I'm fairly certain we did not argue specifics—"

" _I won't do it!"_  Merlin only just constrained himself to a furious whisper. "You can't make me!"

Agravaine's stupid, self-satisfied smirk slipped, for a moment— _good,_  Merlin thought, venomously—and he went striding back the way he'd come until he'd closed the distance between them and even then he didn't stop and he was nearly on top of Merlin now and Merlin stumbled back—he hated himself for it, but he couldn't stop he couldn't stop and then his back hit the wall and there was nowhere to go and Agravaine was so close and he couldn't breathe and he couldn't move and it wouldn't matter even if he could because he had nowhere to go he was trapped he was trapped he was trapped  _he had nowhere to go_ —

Agravaine slammed his hand against the wall. Mere inches from Merlin's head. And Merlin flinched, and he couldn't help it, and he hated hated  _hated_  it.

"I've  _told_  you," his eyes burned, the words a growl in the back of his throat, "I  _don't like_  to repeat myself. I will only remind you once more – if I am to keep your secret from your _precious_  Arthur, you will repay me in the way I have chosen, and you will do it  _gladly_."

_No._  Merlin couldn't—he couldn't let this happen—not again—he had to end things— _now—_

" _Do you understand?"_ Agravaine never raised his voice above that low, smooth whisper, but the corridor echoed with the sound, every word reverberating, resounding off the walls until it was all Merlin could hear, a deafening roar from everywhere and nowhere. Agravaine dashed his hand against the wall again.  _"Do you understand?!"_

_No,_  Merlin needed to say,  _no_ , _never—never again, ever—it's over—you can't make me_ —he  _needed_ to say it, he needed to stop this, he needed to put an end to things—he couldn't let it happen again, he  _could not_  let it happen again—and it would be  _so easy_ —let out the energy, thrumming and throbbing in his veins—let it out, let it go, let it pick Agravaine up and fling him back, all the way to the far wall—if he did it right, the force of the blow would break the vile pig's  _neck_ —it wouldn't take long for a passing servant to find his body—

Merlin's stomach rolled, and he shut his eyes. The vision burned, bright like fire, in the back of his mind. He was sure he was going to be sick. How could—how could he have even let himself  _think_  like that? How could he have even let himself imagine—even if only for a moment—? No, no, he could not—he  _could not_ kill Agravaine. Such a senseless, cruel slaughter would serve none save himself. And Arthur would be  _devastated—_

Arthur. Oh, gods.  _Arthur._  Arthur would be—he would—to lose Agravaine now—so soon after his father—the blow could very well bring him to his knees. How could Merlin have even  _considered_  doing something so horrible to him?

No. He couldn't hurt Agravaine. Even if he wanted to. And he couldn't—he  _couldn't_  let him tell Arthur. Not now. Not ever.

Merlin swallowed. It all—it all came down to Arthur, didn't it? He couldn't hurt Agravaine, not without hurting Arthur, and he couldn't say no to Agravaine unless he wanted Arthur to find out the truth, and if Arthur found out the truth,  _that_  would hurt him, too—

It all came down to Arthur.

Merlin opened his eyes. He forced himself to look at Agravaine. "Your chambers," he said, and he didn't know who he hated more, in that moment—the person in front of him or the person inside of him. "I'll be there."

_For Arthur._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to get the next chapter up a little sooner than this one - I had some SERIOUS writer's block for probably a solid week right in the middle of this piece, and when I went back to it, I ended up rewriting over half of it, so naturally it took a little longer than usual. Still! Hopefully I'll be back a hell of a lot sooner with the next one, but I obviously can't guarantee. Comments help me grow!


	4. Keep My Pretty Mouth Shut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm headed straight for the castle,  
> They've got the kingdom locked up,  
> And there's an old man sitting on the throne that's saying,  
> I should probably keep my pretty mouth shut."
> 
> \- Castle, Halsey

_For Arthur._

_Gods,_  but it all came down to Arthur, didn't it? It  _really did_  come down to Arthur, just Arthur, only Arthur,  _always_ Arthur—once, this thought would have brought his blood to a boil, would have seared its sharp and scorching way through him, a trail of fury and resentment and ill-usage and  _of course it comes down to Arthur because when does it_ not  _come down to Arthur_  left in its wake—but—but  _he saw_ —the shadows, Merlin saw the shadows—like great big bruises, startlingly stark under Arthur's sleepless, slightly puffy eyes—and he saw the lines, etched so deep in Arthur's pale, tired face, the exhausted slump to Arthur's shoulders, once so proud, the faded blue of Arthur's eyes, once so bright—the fractures, the fault lines, the cracks carving themselves into the skin as he staggered and struggled and crumbled under a burden far too heavy for him, too heavy for any man, to hope to bear alone—Merlin looked, and Merlin saw, and he could not have resented his king if he had tried.

He knew, then, that he was doing the right thing. He followed Arthur up the stairs and down the corridors and around the corners and into that morning's council meeting, and out into the training grounds—which seemed, somehow, quieter and emptier without Leon and Percival—and he didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew he was doing the right thing. Arthur carried the whole of the kingdom on his shoulders, and Merlin didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew he could not ask Arthur to carry anything more.

Merlin didn't know much of anything anymore, but he knew Arthur did not deserve to hurt anymore.

And if that meant  _he_  had to hurt—if he had to hurt  _for Arthur_ —if he had to hurt so Arthur  _didn't_ —

—well, it was for Arthur, so he'd shut his mouth and smile, and he wouldn't say a word.  _For Arthur. For Arthur. For Arthur._

It was for Arthur, it was for Arthur, it was all for Arthur, all of it, every last little bit of it, and Merlin could see, if he closed his eyes, shoulders thrown back, as proud and tall as they had been—he could see a face without lines and flesh without fractures and eyes that had never lost their shine, eyes that were bright and blue and  _alive_  again, and he found he could carry himself through the corridors and down to Agravaine's door.

Agravaine wasn't there.

On the other side of the room, the window was still open, thick red curtains thrown wide. The candles in their holders had not yet been lit, and the hearth held only cool embers. The desk, in the center of the room, stood with its surface nearly buried entirely under scrolls and scrolls of yellow-white parchment—reports and records and letters and maps—Merlin didn't care enough to linger on them—and the cloak—Agravaine's purple traveling cloak—was gone. He'd taken it off the—off the chair—

—the chair where Agravaine first kissed him with lips on his lips and hands on his chin and a tongue in his mouth and wine in the back of his throat even though he hadn't let a drop pass his own lips all night and fingers, so rough and fevered and hungry, sliding down and down and down and down and touching him, cupping him, stroking him, squeezing him—

— _no, no, no, stop, stop, stop, don't think about it, don't think about it, don't fucking think about it—_

—thick red velvet crumpling under his nails—

— _stop it stop it stop it that's not going to help just stop—_

—hands all over him hands inside him and _please not this not this not this anything but this_  and  _this is all that I want_ and lips warm and slightly wet against his skin his jaw his throat his collarbones—

— _stop it stop it stop it—_

—tears stinging his cheeks and dripping down his chin and  _please I'll do anything else please please anything else_  and his own voice so unlike himself, higher and higher and higher as true panic set in, as Agravaine's fingers rubbed smoothly up against his—

" _Just fucking stop it!"_ The words seemed to almost  _rip_  their way out of Merlin's mouth, to tear themselves from his tongue, to claw up his throat and out into the open air—the sound echoed in the empty chamber, unplanned and unexpected and impossibly loud, strangely magnified, it seemed, by the silence of the room—and Merlin couldn't couldn't couldn't  _stand_  it and he started to walk—he didn't know why—there was nowhere to go—but he walked, he walked, he walked away from the door and past the bed and over to the window and outside, the black sky blazed bright with a billion stars and the coldest wind he'd ever felt tore through the gap and into the room and the curtains billowed outward around him in the blasts and  _thick red velvet crumpling under his nails_  and he couldn't he couldn't  _he couldn't—_

He turned away from the window.

The chair where Agravaine had first kissed him and the wall where he'd pinned him and the floor where he'd knelt and there wasn't a  _single goddamn place_  in this room he could let his memories touch. He walked away from the window. To the desk. He didn't know why but he snatched up the first piece of paper he saw, lying there right on top and he didn't care what it said and he couldn't read it by the dim starlight but he squinted at the words on the page anyway because there wasn't a single goddamn place in this room he could let his memories touch and if he tried, he knew he'd leave and then Agravaine—then Arthur—then—

— _stop it—_

The paper crinkled loudly. He looked down. His fingers had clenched up into a fist. He uncurled them, and smoothed the paper. He still couldn't read it.

A jerk of the hand, a burn behind his eyes, and a shimmering ball of blinding, blue-white light sat in his open palm. After the darkness of the room, it hurt him to look at it.

He looked back at the paper, momentarily startled to see Leon's narrow, painfully-neat writing stared back at him—what did Agravaine and Leon have to do with each other?—but a quick skim-through told him it was only the first knight's usual post-patrol report—he forgot, sometimes, that Arthur shared these reports with Agravaine—forgot, sometimes, how Arthur shared _everything_  with Agravaine—

He felt the sphere he'd conjured lift itself slowly from his palm—it came to a stop just above his head, bobbing slowly up and down, illuminating the entire chamber with its milky glow.

Merlin flung the report away—it couldn't hold his attention. The paper fluttered for a moment, end over end, in the air before it landed, face-down, on top of the left-hand stack. There was another paper now where it had been, and he tugged it up, a little closer to the light. Lines—thousands and thousands of thin, crisscrossed, intersecting lines—a map—a map of—of—

What did Agravaine want with the maps to Camelot's siege tunnels?

_Copies,_  Merlin answered himself, almost at once,  _Arthur must want copies_ —wait a moment, though,  _that_ didn't make sense—that was the sort of task Arthur would have turned over to Geoffrey, not Agravaine—and, anyway, gods knew he would have made Merlin go down to the vaults and get them—or at least dragged Merlin along while  _he_  went and got them. All right, then—then maybe—maybe Arthur thought they might need to use the siege tunnels soon—maybe he had some sort of—some sort of information on Morgana and had started defense preparations in case of attack— _no, that can't be right, he'd have told me about that—_

A streak, thin and black and almost glistening against the narrow, faded lines— _ink—fresh ink—_ Merlin bent a bit closer to the map, smoothing it flat with the palm of his hand—the sphere he'd summoned seemed to sense what he wanted, and dropped down a few inches—light flooded the worn paper—a string of dots, stark against the white page, and a word, a word in a hand he didn't recognize, a word he couldn't read—he leaned in just a bit more—

A quiet click and a longcreak and a slight scrape and— _the door,_  Merlin realized, too late— _the door had opened_ —and he turned— _too late_ —away from the desk—and then there was Agravaine Agravaine Agravaine only Agravaine, stopped short in the entryway and wrapped in his purple traveling cloak and staring staring  _staring_  at Merlin and shaking shaking Merlin was shaking and he couldn't stop—leaves, like leaves in the Darkling Woods and why was everything so loud—his own breath, sharp and shuddering, and the steady drip of water on stone, from the hem of Agravaine's cloak—and the rustle of the paper in his hands— _rustle—paper—map_ —and Merlin's brain ground back into action and he wanted—he didn't know why, but he wanted—he wanted to toss it back onto the desk—stuff it out of sight—pretend he had not seen—pretend he had not looked—too late, too late, it was too late—and Agravaine shook off his shock and strode forward—nearer nearer nearer he was getting nearer and Merlin couldn't—he couldn't help himself—he stepped back—

"Did you—?" And Agravaine—incredibly—looked, not to the map in Merlin's trembling hands—but to the light, still floating less than a foot above their heads. "Did you do that?" He pointed to the light.

Merlin nodded. He couldn't seem to speak. He couldn't think why the light mattered so much, except— _oh—of course_ —he waited, then, for Agravaine to say the words he knew he would— _stop it—put it out—banish it—make it go away—_

Agravaine  _laughed._ He looked at the light, and he laughed—and that didn't make any sense, that didn't make any sense at all, because didn't he—didn't he want it gone—wasn't he  _afraid_ —? But in the silver-white shimmer, his face betrayed no fear—he moved, without hesitation or reluctance, around the light—he stopped only once, to swing his cloak off at the shoulder—hung it over the back of the red-velvet chair by the desk again—water still trickled, but more slowly now, from its edge—wait—wait a moment— _water_ —but—but it wasn't raining—

"Where—?" The sound of his own voice startled him—he hadn't really meant to speak aloud. "Where have you been?"

"No matter." Agravaine waved his hand dismissively, and slowly rounded the desk. The gleam had returned to his dark eyes. "We have more important things to consider, you and I." He put a finger under Merlin's chin—he leaned ever so slightly down—his gaze never left Merlin's lips—his hungry, searching mouth opened a fraction—but—

"No—" Merlin pulled back. "No,  _where_  have you been?"

There was something almost like amusement in Agravaine's eyes when he regarded Merlin now. "I hope you were not waiting long?" He raised a brow. "I confess, I thought Arthur would keep you late as usual. I do apologize for the delay." He smiled—a small and altogether unreadable smile—and, before Merlin could protest, had swept him up in a kiss—but—but something was  _wrong_ —his hands slipped down but—he wasn't—he wasn't trying to—didn't he want to—to  _touch_ —?

The soft crinkle of creased paper sounded loud as a scream in the silence—Merlin's brain caught up with his senses, and he broke the kiss—jerked back—bumped the desk in his haste. "Does Arthur know you've got this?"

Agravaine laughed. "It was on his orders that I retrieved these maps and plotted the route, Merlin, or don't you remember? Yes, I would say he is aware I have them."

_Plotted the route? On Arthur's orders?_  When did that—? Merlin narrowed his eyes. "I _don't_  remember, though. Refresh my memory?"

"That might be difficult seeing as how you were not present at the time."

"Not present?" Merlin repeated, and raised his eyebrows. " _That's_  convenient."

"It's certainly not  _my_  fault you weren't in your usual place in Arthur's hip pocket." The small half-smile, which had clung so doggedly to the corner of Agravaine's lip all this time, slipped now into an irritated frown.  _Interesting._  "I believe he mentioned he had sent you off to—muck the stables or—well— _something_  like that, anyway, the whereabouts of a servant were  _hardly_  my concern at the—"

_Damn it._ Point for Agravaine."Fine, then, so I wasn't there," Merlin conceded, and his own fury fell back a bit in the burst of vicious pleasure at the look of outrage on Agravaine's face—didn't like being interrupted, did he? "Do  _you_  want to enlighten me, then? What did Arthur want with the maps?"

"Thisis a matter solely between myself and my nephew." Agravaine stepped back a pace, and his gleaming dark eyes never left Merlin's face. "And I will thank you to leave it that way."

Merlin ignored him. "And he asked you to get them? The maps?" He frowned. This didn't add up. "Why didn't he just get them himself? Did he say anything about that?"

"The king of Camelot," Agravaine snapped, nostrils flaring, and not a shred of warmth left in his face, "has  _far_  more important matters to attend to than the retrieval of a mere  _map_."

"I'm not sure Arthur would agree," Merlin said, and the truth of it burned, brighter than fire, inside him—no, Arthur would  _not_  agree. He would think nothing at all of fetching the map for himself, no matter what Agravaine said. He would  _want_  to do it, even. He would see it, Merlin knew, as a kind of privilege—a quiet and invisible sort of honor—to do what he could to see to the safety and the protection of the people. That was who Arthur was, and that was what Arthur did and why, then, had Agravaine felt the need to insist  _he_  be the one to retrieve them—?

_Agravaine had taken the map._

But—but  _why_ —?

"Really, Merlin," Agravaine huffed, "you are being ridiculous! I do not pretend to know why Arthur neglected this to mention this to you, but rest assured—!"

No, but this didn't add up,  _this just did not add up_ —Agravaine had no need of the map—why would he need—and if, for some reason, he did, why wouldn't he have just  _asked_ Arthur—gods knew Arthur would say yes—gods knew Arthur would rip the stars from the sky with his own two hands if he thought it might please Agravaine—and Agravaine knew that, Agravaine must have known that, so why—and why would he  _need_ —? It all came back to that, really, that one unanswerable, unfathomable question—why would Agravaine need the map in the first place? Agravaine, leading such a comfortable and influential life inside the castle—

_Inside the castle. Inside the castle._

The whole world had shifted so rapidly in the past ten minutes, rearranged itself in a thousand and one different, confusing ways, and Merlin didn't think he could say, with any kind of certainty at least, which way was up anymore. But—but now— _inside the castle inside the castle inside the castle_ —the universe righted itself, and everything made sense again, the truth staring back at him in such stunning and simple clarity he could not believe he had ever failed to see it.

Yes, Agravaine, who lived inside the castle, had no need of that map, but there was somebody—somebody outside the castle, who would very much like to get in again—somebody who would want that map more than words could say—

And the final, missing piece to the strange and mysterious puzzle Merlin never meant to solve clicked all at once into place.

" _Morgana."_  The sound of his own voice startled him. He had not meant to say it aloud.

" _What?"_ Agravaine demanded, and his voice was like the serrated edge of Arthur's favorite hunting knife.

"You—you took—" Merlin lifted the map a little, "—you took this—" he raised his eyes to Agravaine's, cold as ice and glistening darkly in the light of his sphere, "—you took this for Morgana." The words had only just fallen from his mouth when revelation struck again. "That's—that's where you were tonight, isn't it? That's where you've been." And he  _knew_ —he knew he was right—the brief flash of fury in the depths of Agravaine's black eyes—the tightness around his thin, unsmiling mouth—

"I understand," Agravaine said, and his voice washed over Merlin like cold water on a warm spine, like ice on fevered flesh, "I understand he has allowed you quite a bit offreedom in your speech to him, so much freedom, it seems, that you have forgotten your place. I am willing, then," he added, louder now, as Merlin furiously opened his mouth, "to overlook this accusation, severe as it was, but let me assure you: I will not be so lenient in future. Do I make myself clear?"

And— _rage_ —more powerful, more terrible, than anything Merlin had ever felt, unstoppable and uncontrollable in how quickly it swelled up inside of him, an enormous balloon endlessly spreading and stretching and expanding—and it flooded his lungs like water, and yet it seared up his throat like fire—rushing through him and pulling pulling pulling at him, ripping at him, wrenching him in every direction at once and his blood began to roar in his ears like a great and untamed beast and Agravaine, unflinching and unwavering and underhanded Agravaine and a betrayal that didn't belong to Merlin pounded inside him, in time with his heart—screams built up behind his lips— _how could you how could you how could you how could you fucking do this to Arthur—_

_Arthur._ He had to get Arthur, see Arthur, talk to Arthur, tell Arthur— _tell Arthur_ —the jumbled and rapid and frenzied thoughts, moving so quickly he could scarcely keep track of them, scraped to a painful but immediate stop, the sharp edges snagging on the inside of a skull that felt suddenly too small to hold everything it ought—Arthur, he would have to tell Arthur, there was no other choice, no other way—and if there was, he would take it in a heartbeat but there wasn't,  _there wasn't_ —he would have to tell Arthur. To look Arthur in the eye, and tell him—tell him how the last branch on the rotting tree of his sorry, fractured family had fallen, far too fast for anyone to catch, for anyone to even see—and Arthur would need to see for himself before he'd really believe it—he'd learned long ago to take no one at their word, not even Merlin—and then he'd see, he'd see, and it would shatter him, crumble him, crush him—Merlin would try, but he knew the weight of the truth was a burden he could not carry for Arthur, as he had so many others—

Merlin shut his eyes and swallowed, and he swore he could taste ashes. He could feel Agravaine's gaze on him like a physical thing. He had to get to Arthur as quickly as possible and he had to get to Arthur as _quietly_  as possible. He had gotten too far ahead of himself, shown his hand before he held all the cards, tried to check the king with nothing but a pawn. And he could do better than that— _had_ done better than that, when Morgana was still at court. It was Morgana over again, and he could do better. He opened his eyes. "I—I may have been—"  _Quickly. Quietly._ "—hasty in my—my accusations against you. I—" The last word caught in the back of his throat—he spat it from his mouth like poison, "—I'm sorry."

A flicker of relief lit up Agravaine's lined features—he believed it— _good—_ next second, it had vanished as though it had never been, and he had drawn himself up to his full height. "You are forgiven," he said imperiously. "Now let us attend to other matters. Surely you can recall why we are here…"

* * *

A thousand times Merlin had pounded this path since he'd come to Camelot—through corridor after winding, labyrinthine corridor, once so baffling to his provincial, country-boy mind and now familiar as an old friend, from the hairline cracks in the sand-colored stone walls to the airy, wide-open ceilings a hundred leagues above his head—a thousand times he'd pounded this path, but not like this, not like this, _never_  like this—his hands shaking and his breath coming far too fast, rough and uneven and painfully loud in his ears and the thump of his boots on the ground and the desperate, deafening batter of his heart against his ribs hammering and hammering and hammering so hard he didn't know how his body could hold onto it _—_

—and the door, right there, the door, in front of him, and on the other side Arthur slept, untroubled and completely at peace, and still believed the best of the man who had betrayed him, and Merlin's steps faltered—his hand, halfway to the knob, dropped slowly back to his side—if there was anything else, any other choice, any other way, any other path in the world he could walk, he would, he would walk it, he would take it, he would do it, anything, he would do  _anything_  to protect Arthur from this pain, but he couldn't he couldn't he  _couldn't_ , Arthur had to know,  _Arthur had to know_ —it had been a close call tonight, in Agravaine's chambers, too close—if he'd managed to get the map to Morgana—Merlin's resolve redoubled, and he pushed open the door.

And the sight of Arthur, sprawled on his stomach, his hair in his face and his head tilted to one side and his mouth slightly open, his thick red blankets wrapped loosely and lazily around his waist, made Merlin stop in the entryway, his fingers still clenched around the cool knob—what he wouldn't give to go back—just  _go back_ , just turn away, let Arthur sleep because gods knew he wasn't doing nearly enough of that these days—gods knew he didn't deserve the hurt Merlin would have to ask him to carry—gods knew he looked, in his sleep, too  _young_  to carry that hurt—the lines in his face, so marked in the morning light, had smoothed out to nearly nothing as he slumbered and gods knew if there was anything else, any other choice, any other way—but there wasn't, therewasn't,  _there_   _wasn't_ , and Merlin stretched out his hand and shook Arthur's shoulder until his king, always slow to wake, stirred in his sheets, and cracked his tired blue eyes open by half a millimeter.

"'Erlin?" He lifted himself up a little, and threw a drowsy glance around the dark chamber. "What—what _time_  is it?"

Merlin pretended he hadn't heard the question. Pretended everything inside of him wasn't twisting up so tight, he knew it would never come loose. How quickly Arthur would forget to care about things like the time. "I—I have something to tell you." His voice sounded far too steady in his own ears.

Honey-blond brows lifted by a fraction. "Can't it wait—?"

" _No."_

Half a second of silence and stillness and weary blue eyes, ringed by shadows and sorrow and echoes of something lighter and younger and long since faded, and then the owner of those eyes sighed, and dragged a hand down the side of his face, and he looked so old and exhausted, Merlin thought he'd sooner cut out his own tongue than tell the truth.

Arthur lifted his head, and met Merlin's eyes. "Tell me."

* * *

"The idea is  _preposterous_!" Arthur swatted impatiently at Merlin's hands when he reached to help, but at least he'd actually pulled himself up out of the bed and set about struggling into his shirt and shoving his feet into his boots—for a moment there, he'd looked a second away from rolling over and going right back to sleep.  _"Why,"_  he finally pulled his head through the correct hole in his tunic, and emerged from the mass of white cloth looking vaguely disheveled, "why would Agravaine  _ever_ betray Camelot?" He didn't seem to expect an answer or, at least, he didn't wait for one. "I refuse to believe—! It doesn't make any  _sense_ —!"

Merlin silently straightened out Arthur's wrinkled shirt—this time, Arthur didn't bother to try and stop him. When he'd finished, Arthur snatched his keys off the bedside table, turned on his heel and ripped open the door. "Send the Lord Agravaine down to the vaults," he barked at the guard standing just outside his room and, without waiting for the man's answering nod or obedient retreat, he marched out into the deserted corridors without a word, back straight and fists clenched, always half a pace ahead of Merlin.

The silence followed them the whole way down to the vaults, so heavy on them, Merlin didn't know that he'd ever speak again. The darkness grew steadily thicker around them, but only when the air turned stale and cold, did he know they had reached their destination.

Arthur stopped before the familiar, towering black cabinet, ripped the right key away from the rest, and jammed it roughly in the lock—an instant later, and the bolt had clicked—Arthur flicked the cabinet door open, and reached for the mass of papers within.

A moment of blind rummaging turned into several—Arthur's brows drew together—he ducked his head a little, to peer into the cabinet's depths for himself—and Merlin wanted to look away, he didn't want to watch as the familiar string of hurt and disbelief and anger played out across Arthur's face but nothing inside of him would listen to him anymore, and Agravaine's footsteps sounded on the stairs above them and Arthur finally stepped back and withdrew his hand from the cabinet and—and—

—and he was holding the map.

No.  _No_. How could he have— _how could he—?_

Arthur unrolled the map—his gaze flicked briefly over the worn paper, but his expression didn't change, and a minute later, he'd thrust the map wordlessly into Merlin's shaking hands and even in the darkness of the vaults Merlin could see there was no trace of the fresh ink from scarcely an hour ago and he could not keep back the sound that left his lips—it wasn't possible, it just  _wasn't possible_ —

"No," he said, stupidly, because it was the only thing in the world he could think to say. "No—Arthur, it's—it's not—"

And then Agravaine was there, at Arthur's side, and his dark eyes flickered, for an instant, down to the map in Merlin's hands. The corner of his mouth curled up in something too small to be a smile and in that moment, Merlin knew he had not imagined anything that had happened this night—his own certainty burning, bright like fire, inside him gave him the strength to hold the gaze.

Agravaine looked away first, turning to Arthur. "I came as soon as I could, my Lord." He put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Is there a problem?" His voice was honey, too thick and too sweet—oh, _yes_ , he played his part well, and Merlin felt even more the fool, the map still clutched in his shaking hands—he had underestimated this man in front of him.

"No, Uncle, not at all." Without a word or even a glance, Arthur snatched the map back from Merlin, and threw it back into the cabinet. He slammed the cabinet shut. "I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you." His eyes snapped to Merlin, fury written clearly in every line of his face.

A shadow of a smile ghosted briefly across Agravaine's thin lips and this time, when his black eyes darted to Merlin, he didn't waver even as he bowed himself out of the vaults.

Oh, yes, he did play his part well.

So Merlin—

Well, Merlin would just have to play his part  _better_.

"Arthur," he tossed a glance at the stairs, to be sure Agravaine had well and truly disappeared, "I  _know_  what I saw. The map was  _there_ , in his chambers. He took it from the vaults and he intended to bring it to Morgana, I  _know_  he did. He's in league with Morgana. You  _have_  to listen to me—"

"Merlin," Arthur held up a hand for silence, "I am going to do you a favor that you quite frankly  _don't_ deserve, and pretend this never happened." He turned away from the cabinet, away from Merlin, the keys dangling from his fingers, and filling the vault with their soft jingling. "I expect you on time tomorrow, no excuses, I've a council meeting at sunrise." He started up the stairs.

It took a minute for Merlin to realize he had been dismissed—rudely, too, like some sort of housekeeper—oh, wait, that was sort of what he—never mind. He firmed his mouth, and strode after Arthur. "The map was in his chambers, I'm telling the truth! I _saw_  it!"

"And what exactly," Arthur tossed a glance at Merlin over his shoulder, furrows appearing in his forehead, "were you doing in his chambers?"

"I—he—" The words seemed to stick in his throat—he hadn't prepared himself for a question like this—and he could feel warm and greedy lips kissing their way down his collarbones and hungry hands rubbing at his cock and his throat burned with the taste of bile at the back of it. "He—he wanted a word, i-it's not important, he's planning something with Morgana, you must listen to me—"

Arthur shoved the door open, and stepped out into the corridor. "That's _enough_ , Merlin. I'm not arguing with you about this."

"But," Merlin followed after him, halting momentarily as the moonlight, dim as it was, stung his eyes after the all-encompassing darkness of the vaults, "but Arthur, if you would just—"

"Go to sleep, Merlin."

"— _listen—"_

Arthur wheeled abruptly around to face him, and his eyes were like ice. "One more word, and I swear to God, I will send you into exile." He turned around, and he kept walking. The keys jingled in his hands again.

— _an enormous balloon endlessly spreading and stretching and expanding and pulling pulling pulling at him, ripping at him, wrenching him in every direction at once, unstoppable and uncontrollable—_

" _LISTEN TO ME!"_

Stinging pain and something hot all over his hands and Arthur's eyes staring staring staring and words clawing their way out of his throat and throwing themselves off his tongue, out into the air, too fast for him to catch—

" _For once in your goddamn life, fucking listen to me, Arthur Pendragon!_ I  _don't know_  how the stupid son of a  _bitch_ got the map back into the vaults, but I—!"

"Watch your tongue," Arthur snapped, a red tinge appearing in his cheeks. "My uncle is a good and honorable man."

Merlin laughed, so wild and bitter he couldn't believe the sound belonged to him. _"Your uncle is a lying piece of filth!"_ The words erupted from his lips like lava from a volcano, exploding like a gas-fed flame.

"You go too far!"

"And you will not see those around you for what they  _really are_!"

"I know him far better than you! I've known him since I was a _child_ —"

" _You've known_ Morgana  _since you were a child!"_

And Arthur—like Merlin had just struck him across the face like Merlin had just driven a sword through his chest—stumbling back and his mouth opening and closing and his hands had started to shake so that jingling that awful awful awful jingling filled the whole corridor and all the anger drained from Merlin in an instant and what he wouldn't give to grab the words from the air and stuff them back in his mouth and swallow them down before they could reach Arthur's ears but it was too late, they had,  _they had,_  and why had he let himself say—how could he have even let himself  _think_ —?

"I—" Merlin stood frozen, staring into Arthur's devastated eyes. "I am so sorry—"

"Leave me." Arthur's hollow, toneless voice never rose above a whisper. Merlin would have preferred it if he had shouted. If he had struck back.

Merlin swallowed. It was so loud in the silence of the corridor. He knew Arthur could hear it. He stepped forward. "Arthur—"

" _Leave me."_  Hushed as they were, the words carried a touch of real force behind them now, and Merlin—

—Merlin left.

* * *

_Shut up and smile._

That was it, wasn't it? That was it. That was everything. That was all he'd had to do—all he'd needed to do, all he  _should_  have done, all he'd ever done,  _shut up and smile_  because it  _worked_  even when he didn't want it to, even—even when he would have given anything for  _anyone_ ,  _anywhere_ , to see past his smiles and his silence to the tears burning behind his eyes and tightening up the back of his throat until he could barely swallow, and they never did, so he kept silent and he kept smiling and it  _worked_ , even when it was the last thing he felt like doing, even when he felt so empty he was sure someone had cut him open and taken everything he had inside him out—he shut up, and he smiled, because it  _worked_ and he  _knew_  that, so why the hell hadn't he done it? Just shut up and smiled, just  _shut the fuck up and smiled_ , or torn out his goddamned tongue the minute he tasted the terrible words fighting to fall from it because anything anything  _anything_ would be better than this, than the memory of Arthur's wide and wounded eyes, and looking at Merlin like a black hole had erupted into sudden and painful existence in the center of his being, swirling faster faster faster as all the light inside him got sucked in—and _he_  had done that to him—Merlin—he had done that to  _Arthur_ —everything was supposed to be for Arthur—to save him, to serve him, protect and shelter him, to put a smile on his face, to build him back up no matter how many others tore him down, and Merlin—

_I've hurt him,_  and the truth of it pounded inside him like a second heart.  _I've hurt him, and I can't take it back, and I can't fix it, and I can't make it better, and I can't—_

And then Gaius' door was there, standing firmly shut in front of him, and he hadn't realized he was going there, he hadn't even realized until he was standing in front of it—and he pushed the door open, and his hands prickled and stung and he could feel broken skin tearing anew—he hadn't realized how hard he'd struck the wall, how the stones had snagged his flesh, until now, with blood trickling down his palms—he could heal it—he didn't—he let his hands bleed, and it felt better than forcing his skin back together. He slipped into the room and turned back to close the door, slamming his head as hard as he could against the cool wood as he did, until his skull hurt as much as his hands. Hell, after what he'd done, who was to say he didn't deserve a little pain?

For a minute, he remained like that, head pressed, hard as he could stand it, to the door, and his eyes screwed shut, and the pop and crackle of the fire seemed to echo throughout the empty room—

He hadn't—he hadn't lit a fire.

He opened his eyes and he lifted his head away from the door and—

—hands hands hands on him—hands around his neck, around his throat, over his mouth and he couldn't speak and he couldn't  _breathe_  and his magic roared to life inside him, like an animal, instinctive and uncontrolled, and he let it flood his veins and fill him up and build slowly in his bleeding palms, stronger and stronger and stronger, until it was all he could feel—and he spun around so quickly the whole world blurred before his eyes and the hands fell away and he could taste the incantation on his lips and he didn't stop to  _think,_  he just raised his arm and he felt the power spread up into his fingers and—and—dark hair and dark eyes and a lined face staring back at him—a hesitation that lasted a fraction of a second too long as he struggled to make sense of it and—and— _pain—_ exploding sharply outward from the base of his skull and the bottom of his back to meet somewhere in the middle and so much so fast  _holy fucking hell_ and the world went white around him andhe couldn't even hope to stop his mouth before it  _screamed_ , taking the last of the breath the collision with the wall hadn't knocked from his lungs—little shiny stars burst into being behind his eyes like miniature suns—and a hand on his chest and a hand on his throat—a hand _around_  his throat— _again_ —circling and constricting and  _crushing—_ oh, gods, no, breathe,  _breathe_ , he needed to breathe,  _he needed to breathe_ and he lifted shaking hands and his—his magic—it didn't—it gave a weak sort of wobble, somewhere inside him, and then fell back into dormancy and why wasn't it working why wasn't it working it always worked for him his magic always came through for him and he clawed  _desperately_  at the arms that held him, short nails raking uselessly over thick velvet sleeves and everything was going dim and dark and fuzzy and  _is this what it's like to die—_

Agravaine let him go.

_Oh, thank gods,_ and then he dropped, boneless, to the floor at the foot of the wall, and  _breathed_ —dragging the air into his lungs, so fast and greedy, rough and uneven and overly-loud gasps—his throat protested every desperate gulp but he didn't care, he didn't care, because he could  _breathe_ —

"Did you  _think_ ," a vicious snarl in Agravaine's voice, "did you  _actually_   _think_  you could play me?!"

Merlin jerked his head up—he wished he hadn't, his throat throbbed with the motion—he jerked his head up just in time to see Agravaine's heavy black boot leave the floor, rear back—his head felt very full, something thick and fluffy that slowed his thoughts—the boot slammed into his stomach so hard his teeth rattled and the air in his lungs, so hard-won, left him all over again in a great, gasping _whoosh_  and he plummeted back to the floor and grabbed for his stomach, curling up in the tiniest ball he could manage—the inside of his mouth seemed to burn, flooding suddenly with something hot and thick and strangely sour—

He shot up on his knees just as the sick tore free, spilling out from between his open lips and down down down onto the floor in an endless and scorching and yellow-white stream—every nerve in his throat screamed even as the muscles worked to bring up the last of it—shaking hands clutched at his rebelling stomach—

"There, now," Agravaine dropped into a crouch at Merlin's side, "have you learned your lesson?"

"Learned—learned my—?" The words proved sharp enough to pierce the thick and fluffy something that wouldn't let him think—the murky haze in his head lifted by the barest fraction— _learned your lesson_ —like—like he was some sort of—of  _disobedient, misbehaving child_ —a little boy in need of discipline—Merlin raised his head and glared into those dark eyes.  _"Go to hell."_

"I have given you a _warning_ , and that, in itself, is  _enormously generous_  of me," Agravaine snapped, his gaze like black ice, boring into Merlin. "But do not expect me to show you the same courtesy next time you overstep."

"You can take your courtesy and fucking  _choke_ on it, you sick son of a  _bitch_." Merlin pushed himself up on his hands, away from the puddle of sick curdling on the cold floor. "I swear to God, one day, Arthur  _will_ see you for what you  _really_ are."

"Will he?" Agravaine did not smile, but there was something in the lift of his dark brows that indicated a kind of cold pleasure all the same. He grabbed Merlin's chin, rough hands forcing up a heavy head. "And what do you think he will do when he sees  _you_  for what  _you_  really are?" He straightened easily back to his full height, and turned, slow and steady and deliberate, to look at the fire, burning bright on the other side of the room.

Merlin's stomach rolled—for a minute, he thought he was going to be sick again. He swallowed, and it seemed to stick a minute before going all the way down. "You—you're wrong." It sounded unconvincing, even to his own ears, but he had—he  _had_  to believe it. He  _had_ to believe that Arthur would spare him the shame and pain of the pyre.

"Am I?" Agravaine glanced back at him. "Perhaps you'd like a demonstration."

" _No—"_  Merlin threw out his hand, terror scraping painfully at his insides, but his magic wouldn't  _listen_ , it wouldn't _come_ ,  _why wouldn't it come_ , it _always_  came—no—not  _always_ , that was—that wasn't true—his head—his magic never did work well after he hit his head, did it—Agravaine snatched him by the wrist, jerked him up from the floor, and his skull pounded and his stomach throbbed and all the spells he'd ever learned chased themselves around inside his mind but it wouldn't work it wouldn't work  _it wouldn't work_  and then he was  _there_ , on his knees, on the hearthrug, surrounded by flecks of ash and cinder and Agravaine's hands on the back of his bruised and aching head—pushing him, Agravaine was pushing him, nearer and nearer and nearer and the fire was so close inches away, centimeters now, oh gods no no no he was so close no no he didn't want to burn no  _please don't let me burn_ —he twisted feverishly in Agravaine's grip— _please, no, please, don't do this, not this, not fire, please_ —and his cheek—like somebody had pressed a stoker to the skin—burn burn he was going to burn  _he was going to burn_  and he shut his eyes but he could still feel the fire, the smoke the soot the flames melting through the soles of his boots to devour his feet, consume his legs, swallow his waist and stomach and chest  _no no no please please not fire please_ —

" _Please!"_

He didn't mean to say it—he didn't _want_  to say it—he didn't want to give Agravaine the satisfaction, but his mouth—his stupid,  _stupid_  mouth—moved so fast and far ahead— _please stop please stop gods please no not this please_ —his frantic, frenzied mind, so full of fire and fear and burning flesh, couldn't hope to keep up— _gods please no stop please please_ —his heart threw itself against his ribs like a captive animal fighting to escape its cage but too late it was _too late_  it couldn't get free and it was going to burn just like the rest of him and how much would it hurt and maybe maybe  _maybe_  the smoke would send him into eternal sleep before the flames could and  _gods he hoped so_ —

The hands—the hands disappeared—the hands on the back of his head disappeared the hands pushing and pushing and pushing him into the fire—gone gone the hands were  _gone_ and he jerked back as fast as he could, scrambling away from the blaze and he—he wanted to—to  _run_ —clear to the other side of the room, clear to the other side of the  _castle_ , anything anything  _anything_ to  _get away_  just  _get away_  but his limbs wouldn't listen to him and when he tried to stand up his legs wouldn't let him and he collapsed and he couldn't get away he couldn't get away  _he couldn't get away_  and shaking shaking shaking he was shaking and he couldn't—he couldn't  _stop_ —he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't feel anymore—his hands his arms his legs—none of it was real, none of it belonged to him—all he could feel was the fire's scorching tongue dancing over his skin and maybe if he tore the flesh from his bones he could finally  _stop stop just fucking stop_ —

Agravaine spoke, so softly Merlin nearly missed it over the horrible hissing of the flames in the hearth, and he had to shut his eyes and shut out the fire just to hear the words.

" _That,"_ soquiet, so steady, "is what Arthur would do if he knew who you  _really_  are."

And it wasn't true, it wasn't wasn't  _wasn't_  true Arthur  _wouldn't_ do that, Arthur was  _good_ , but the words got lost between his mind and his mouth and—and hands, reaching for him, and he flinched and prayed prayed  _prayed_  he wouldn't go back to the fire, but the hands only grasped for his chin and pulled his head up until he was staring into the gleaming black eyes that made his stomach lurch.

"And he  _would not_ ," Agravaine continued quietly, yet his every word carried easily over the crackling of the flames, "he  _would not_  be so merciful as I. He would not stop when you ask."

_He would,_  Merlin wanted to say, but he  _couldn't—_ because—

"I could make it happen, you know—it would be so  _easy_ —"

— _pure evil pure evil pure evil—_

"—I could tell him—I could tell them _all_  what you are—"

— _magic is pure evil_ and how could Merlin have ever let himself hope that anything could ever be any different—?

Agravaine's fingers tightened on Merlin's face. " _Remember that,_  Merlin." So close now their lips nearly brushed, so close Merlin could feel hot breath on his burned cheek. "The next time you get an idea in that head of yours—" his free hand rose, fisted in Merlin's dark hair, jerked his pounding skull painfully from one side to the other—Merlin wrenched away on instinct, one hand jumping to his head—

"— _remember that,"_ Agravaine hissed, his black eyes ablaze. "If I wanted to, if I felt like it, if you cause too much trouble, if I decide I'm through with you, I can ruin you in a  _second_."

"I—I'm not," Merlin said, and he hated how tight his heart had twisted up inside him, coils in his chest that would never come loose. "I'm _not_  afraid of you." He wished his voice sounded stronger. He wished he could stop shaking and he clenched his hands into fists to try and still them—gods, if the druids could see their prophesized savior now, flinching in the face of a man without a drop of magic in his veins—

" _Then you should be,"_  Agravaine countered. "I can you have in a cell—I can you have on the pyre—and I can have it done in a  _heartbeat_. So  _keep_ ," his lips moved slowly, a subtle, ringing emphasis on every single word, "your pretty mouth  _shut_." He drew back—drew away—he let go of Merlin's chin—and he—he  _smiled_ —he  _actually smiled_  at Merlin—reached out a hand—

—Merlin flinched, on instinct, and he  _hated_  it—

—and then his fingers made contact, a light, brisk pat to Merlin's still-stinging cheek—

And then Agravaine was on his feet and then he was across the room and then he was out the door and "Have a good night, Merlin," and the door fell back into its frame with a soft  _click_.

And—

— _if Arthur knew what you really are if any of them knew what you really are that's what would happen if Arthur knew what you really are if any of them knew what you really are I can ruin you in a second he would not stop he would not be so merciful as I remember that if I decide I'm through with you in a cell on the pyre in a heartbeat keep your pretty mouth shut—_

—and a series of sobs, raw and wracking, ripped their way out of his throat, so horrific and loud and _ugly_  and echoing—echoing echoing echoing off every wall—the cold stone caught the sound and threw it back to him—and he hated it— _he hated it_ —he clamped a hand over his mouth and tried to stop to swallow it back to  _shut up shut up shut up_   _why couldn't he ever just shut up_  why couldn't he stop crying why couldn't he stop crying why couldn't he stop shaking,  _fuck,_  it wasn't that bad it wasn't that bad  _it wasn't that fucking bad_  so why couldn't he just  _shut up_ —and the—the  _fire_ —the fire crackled and the fire hissed and the fire popped and it wouldn't stop it wouldn't stop _it wouldn't ever stop_ —he couldn't— _he couldn't_ —and shuddering hands clapped down over his ears tighter tighter tighter—anything to shut out the sound anything anything anything so he didn't have to—to listen to the—the  _fire_ —

And, with his hands still pressed fast against his ears, Merlin buried his face in the hearthrug and cried.

_Why didn't I just shut up and smile?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO it has been a real hot sec since my last update ((a full two months, actually, but who's counting except me, and that's only to guilt myself into writing lmao)) BUT it is also twice the length of my usual chapters. I feel like that should really count for something. Anyway, I'm really sorry to do this to you guys ((AGAIN r i p)) but I honestly don't know when I'll be updating this one again. Definitely going to shoot for one more before Christmas, but I'll be the first to admit I may have overcommitted myself a bit this holiday ((and every year before, yes, I KNOW, I do this every year)) and while I'm really super excited, I'm also going to be really super busy. But I mean, absence makes the heart grow fonder, so hopefully I'll return to this fic with a renewed passion for it? ((Not that I'm not already ridiculously passionate about it, but like. You know what I mean.))
> 
> Oh, quick note on Merlin's magic by the way: Magic seems to take a hell of a lot of focus in the show, and you've gotta be hella specific what you want that magic to do once it leaves you and, even then, some sorcerers seem to use objects or conduits ((crystals, staffs, etc.)) to help with that focus and specificity. It just makes sense to me that Merlin, whose magic is far more powerful, instinctive, and uncontrolled, than anyone else's - honestly more on par with dragons and the Sidhe and the like than fellow human sorcerers - well, it just makes sense to me that Merlin would need a lot more focus than your average mage, especially as, unlike most, he uses objects so rarely. So if anything happens to impede that focus and concentration - a blow to the prefrontal or parietal cortex, for example, the latter of which he almost certainly received when he hit the wall - his magic takes a while to recover. It's nothing permanent, and up until now, Merlin's regarded it as little more than an inconvenience.
> 
> And thank you guys, so much, for all your patience and support. I'd be nowhere without it. I'm so happy you're enjoying this story.


	5. Got Intentions of Gold With My Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Your eyes say so much to me, your eyes say so,  
> Your eyes say so much to me, your eyes say so,  
> Nobody knows who I am,  
> I've got intentions of gold with my plans."
> 
> \- Gold, Echos

In the cool, pale light of predawn, with the sun rising, slow and sluggish, over the mountains, their towering, snow-capped peaks nothing but dark and distant ridges on the dim horizon, shrouded in the early-morning mists and fog—in the first, tentative tendrils of the new day creeping like thieves through the narrow gaps in the thick red curtains, in the thin yellow bars slithering across the cold stones of the walls and floor, sneaking up the sides of the quilts and covers dangling off the edges of the large bed and turning the rumpled, snow-white sheets even whiter everywhere they touched—

In the cool, pale light of predawn, Arthur could close his eyes, and clench his fists, and tell himself the night before had only been a dream.

_Oh_. How he wished it had been.

_You've known Morgana since you were a child!_

The words seemed to echo, all the way through him, as if his bones caught the sound of Merlin's voice, held it there a minute, and threw it back, up into his lungs, a hard and heavy block he couldn't breathe around and up into the back of his throat, where it seared and scorched like bile, thick and hot and sour, and on up into his head where it scraped and scratched like a rabid creature at the insides of his throbbing skull, where it burrowed down into his brain and gnawed like a feral, starving animal at all the cells, the synapses, blood squelching and bones snapping under the sharp, tearing teeth of it.

_You've known Morgana since you were a child!_

The words seemed to echo, all the way through him, as if his bones caught the sound of Merlin's voice, held it there a minute, and threw it back, and it was still better than all the things Merlin  _hadn't_  said, better than the accusations ringing so clear in his roaring voice, in the wrath in his eyes, in the snarl on his lips.

_You've known Morgana since you were a child and you didn't know, you didn't realize, you were too stupid and self-absorbed to see the magic as it took her over and hardened her heart and corrupted her and turned her into everything she wasn't, to see her friendship was a lie, all a lie—_

— _all a lie—_

Arthur's stomach clenched.

All those times she'd smiled at him, all those times she'd laughed with him, teased him, advised him, guided him, consoled him, marched out onto the training field armed with nothing but her own thrice-damned stubbornness and  _demanded_  he fight with her—

How much of it had been a lie? How much of their friendship had been a lie, a game to her, and he a pretty, delicate, dim-witted glass pawn to move about the board as she chose, but not to know the truth about her heritage, not to know the secret of her magic, not to know  _anything at all_ , be believed in, not to be—

— _trusted—_

But how could she not know? How could she not have known, how could she not have realized—? Her magic would have been nothing, nothing at all, not to Arthur, he wouldn't have cared, he wouldn't have cared about the magic and he wouldn't have cared about her heritage, he wouldn't have, he  _wouldn't_ —he would have gotten her out of Camelot, would have smuggled her from the city, he would have—he would have—when he took the throne—

He would have lifted the ban on magic for her.

He would have stopped the executions. The raids. The burning, and the witch hunts, and all of it, he would have stopped all of it, and for her, all for her, he would have stopped it, all of it, in a heartbeat, all for her, anything for her,  _everything_  for her—

And how long would it have taken, then, for him to realize, how long would it have taken for him to see that his father had been right all along, that magic had no place in Camelot? He hadn't seen the true depth of magic and its evil, not yet, not then, not even then, when it stole Morgana away from him, when the crown gleamed dully amid her dark curls, and her lips twisted up in that cold, proud smile—even then, he hadn't seen, not yet, not until the old sorcerer with his lies and his treachery and his hatred—

No, the magic wouldn't have mattered to Arthur, not then, not in the slightest—none of it would have mattered to him, really, not when it came to her, it wouldn't have made him love her any less, he wouldn't have turned her in to his father,  _their_ father—he couldn't seem to swallow, when he thought of it like that.

He would have helped her.

He would have—would have taken her to Gaius, maybe he could have found something, a—an artifact, maybe, to bind her magic, so she couldn't use it anymore, and it couldn't corrupt her, and she'd be all right—and would that have even  _worked_ —?

He would have helped her.

However far down the path of sorcery Morgana had strayed, she could have turned back. She could have come to him.

He would have helped her.

And what had he done so  _wrong_  to make her think he  _wouldn't_?

Had Morgana really thought so little of him, even then? Had she really thought he'd turn his back on her? Haul her down to the dungeons? Toss her in a cage? Hang her on the gallows? Burn her on a pyre?

_And why not?_  Said the horrible voice Merlin had used in the corridor last night.  _Why not, you've done it before, haven't you, a blind eye, that's what you always do, isn't it, gods know you're so good at it—_

In the cool, pale light of predawn, Arthur had to close his eyes and clench his fists and tell himself the awful sound ripping its way from his mouth was not a sob.

Morgana could have come to him.

He would have helped her.

But she hadn't, because she hadn't realized he would help her, she hadn't known, and how could he blame her, how could he ever blame her? After all the times he'd condemned magic, all the times he'd spat the word  _sorcery_  like an obscene profanity, all the times he'd stepped aside and let innocent citizens die in agony and terror, all the times he'd laughed at her fears, all the times he'd dismissed her nightmares as nothing, and all those times, every single one, he'd been pushing her, hadn't he, farther and farther away, farther and farther out of his reach—she must have thought he would have slaughtered her without a moment's hesitation if he'd known, and if he could just—if he could just  _go back_ , and  _try again_ —if he could just do it over again, he'd do it so differently, he'd be kinder, braver, nobler, better—she wouldn't have had to succumb to the magic, she wouldn't have _had_ to become a monster, he would have found a way to stop it, he would have found a way to take the magic from her, just get it out of her, just  _get it out_ —Morgana would never have had a doubt in her mind that she could trust him with the truth, never a doubt that he would have done everything in his power to save her—

_You've known Morgana since you were a child,_  said the horrible-Merlin-in-the-corridor voice, and this, then, was what his servant had left unspoken last night, wasn't it,  _you've known Morgana since you were a child,_   _but you still weren't good enough to save her._

* * *

In the cool, pale light of predawn, spilling like water through the dusty glass of Gaius' uncovered windows, gleaming dully on the clear sides of crystal bottles and vials, bleaching the pages of books lying open on the benches a blinding white, shimmering in faint, golden whispers all along the floor, creeping coils slinking up Merlin's knee and crisscrossing over his stomach, gliding along his shoulders, snaking up to his face—

In the cool, pale light of predawn, with the hard edge of the bench digging into his back, into the bruises, and he pressed himself into the rough, uneven wood and let it hurt, like the fork in Gaius' chambers, a thousand dots of striking radiance and sharp silver on his skin and  _pain_ , and it hurt him, and it brought him back to himself, and he let it.

He scrubbed a sluggish hand over his tired eyes, itchy and aching, lashes dry and crusted with the strain of another sleepless night, and pulled his cracked lips up in a small, painful smile.

He murmured the words, over and over and over again, tasting the strange and ancient language on his tongue—maybe taking every last relevant word of the Old Religion and mashing them together like a proper incantation had been overkill, but it didn't matter now. It was better this way, anyway. He didn't want to take any chances, didn't want his magic to misunderstand him.

He whispered the spell into the small and sunlit and silent chamber one more time, letting the old stones surrounding him soak up the sound of the forbidden. Even with the words scarcely more than a sigh on his lips, it tore furiously at the back of his bruised and throbbing throat, and he winced and rubbed gingerly at the tender, swollen beneath his scarf.

_No matter what_ —Merlin shut his eyes against the blazing radiance of the rising sun, and he could see Agravaine's hand on Arthur's shoulder, could see the shadow of a smile ghosting across his thin lips, hear the honey in his voice, too thick and too sweet— _no matter what, I will take care of this kingdom._

* * *

Arthur expected Merlin to start talking.

He  _waited_  for it, even—goddamn it, but he actually _waited_  for it, he lay as still as he could in the tangled sheets and he _listened_  for it, because Merlin, well, he  _always_ talked, didn't he—it was just what he  _did_ , wasn't it, and Arthur couldn't shut him up, and certainly not for lack of trying either—no, Arthur could  _never_  shut him up, it was part of what made him  _Merlin_ , and if he started talking, if he just started talking— _please, Merlin, open your big stupid mouth and start talking_ —if he started talking, Arthur could close his eyes and clench his fists and tell himself the horrible-Merlin-in-the-corridor-voice was wrong.

But Merlin didn't start talking.

He slipped soundlessly into the room, a shadow as he moved through the chamber, his steps swift and silent and sure. He set down the breakfast tray balanced on his arm—set it down, on the table, without so much as a clatter. He pulled open the curtains. He stared out at the city through the dirty glass, fingers fisting around the stiff red drapes. He didn't call for Arthur to "rise and shine, Sire!"

_You've known Morgana since you were a child._

Arthur shut his eyes.

_But you still weren't good enough to save her._

* * *

It took all of two seconds to actually place the spell on Agravaine—hours of preparation and memorization and furious practice distilled down to a single moment, less than a heartbeat, the familiar burn behind his eyes, the pulse of power thrumming in his veins, the rush of magic as it left his body—

—and then it was done, it was over, it was complete, and a fine golden mist settled lightly over Agravaine's tall, thin form, invisible to all but Merlin, and his smile was a triumphant twist of the lip, a savagely satisfied baring of the teeth, as he tipped the metal pitcher, heavy with the wine still sloshing in the bottom, over the rim of Agravaine's goblet.

_No matter what_ —and every step hurt like hell with the stretch and pull of bruised and battered skin, under his shirt, under his scarf, up and down his legs, where Agravaine had hit him, had kicked him, hadchoked him, had  _fucked_ him, but Merlin kept his back straight anyway, and he didn't think about it, he didn't he didn't he didn't, because if he did, if he let the bruises on his body be real, if he let last night be real, if he let what Agravaine had done be real—

His fingers, trembling with the force of the power he had only just unleashed, tightened around the cool metal handle of the pitcher.

_No matter what, I will take care of this kingdom._

* * *

Arthur rubbed blearily at his burning eyes for what felt like the millionth time, grinding in, hard, with the heel of his hand, shaking fingers still clutching the thin scroll, Sir Ulfius' tiny, tidy handwriting blazing stark and black amidst the sea of bleached white. Just another report in the mass of thousands, all gathered up on his desk in a disorganized heap—

"Sire."

Arthur swallowed a groan.  _Brilliant._  So  _Merlin_  had decided to open his idiotic mouth _now_  of all times. He'd been so silent so long now, a mere shadow at Arthur's heels—the odd  _yes, Sire_ or _no, Sire_ , or once even a  _let me get that for you, Sire_ , but that was—that was it, that was all, because gods forbid things could be that simple—if Merlin would just give one of his stupid smiles and start chattering away, Arthur could know, he could be sure that things were okay and the horrible Merlin-voice-in-the-corridor had been wrong and—

"Sire." Merlin stepped forward, the soles of his thin boots slapping against the stone floor. "It's late."

"Well spotted, Merlin," Arthur sniped, before he could stop himself. _And_   _if you'd like to leave, you might as well just leave, I'm hardly going to keep you here all night, and you know that and I know you don't want to be here, I know that, I know that, I know—_

Merlin admirably ignored the jibe—he lifted his chin by the barest fraction, that familiar, stubborn set to his jaw. Oh, wonderful, the idiot really wasn't going to let this go, for some unknown Merlin-reason. "Sire, you've been working on those reports for a while now. You should get some rest."

Arthur stilled in his seat, hand halfway to his smarting eyes to try another ineffective scrub. Oh. So that was—that was—that was unexpected. All right. He straightened, and unfurled Sir Ulfius' scroll again. "Thank you for your concern, Merlin." He smoothed the paper flat on the desktop with his palm.

Merlin huffed somewhere above him—Arthur instinctively tightened his hold on the report—his servant had been known to  _snatch things out of his hands_  if he felt he wasn't being listened to, which was really—improper, now that Arthur thought about it.

"Arthur," Merlin said, and he—he called him  _Arthur_ — _Arthur_ —not  _Sire_ — "c'mon, you've got to be  _exhausted_. It's not good to do this to yourself. The work will still be there tomorrow—"

"No," Arthur cut him off, "it  _won't_  be there tomorrow, Merlin, I have to get it finished  _tonight_. The patrol routes have to be finalized tomorrow, and I have that meeting at midday, and—and—"

Merlin plopped himself down, entirely without prompt or invitation, into the chair round the opposite side of the desk, grabbed at least a dozen papers off the top of the stack, and dragged them across the polished desktop toward himself.

Arthur blinked. "Merlin."

Merlin ignored him.

" _Mer_ lin."

"Do you mind? I'm trying to read."

" _Merlin!"_

"This Sir Bedivere," Merlin said thoughtfully, flicking the page in his hand over to reveal more writing crammed on the flip side, "verbose, isn't he?"

"Yes," Arthur huffed, thoroughly displeased with the entire situation but at a complete loss as to how to rectify it, short of summoning a few guards to physically haul Merlin from the chambers. "I've often thought the two of you would get along wonderfully."

Merlin smiled—barely anything, really, a small quirk at the corner of his lip, nothing like his usual stupid, beaming grins that showed all his teeth and made it look like he was about to split his face, but—

—but—

—but Arthur, for some absurd reason, felt a tug at his mouth, too.

* * *

Gaius' chambers were dark and silent and shockingly cold when Merlin eased the door open and slipped inside, his breath spilling out of his mouth in pearly silver wisps—it wasn't proper winter, not just yet, but the last of the leaves had left the trees last week, and the first snow couldn't be far off—it seemed every year he managed to forget, in the heat and light of beautiful summer, how the cold set in at autumn's end, all the way down to his bones.

Merlin kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and stretched his aching arms up over his head, wincing at the pain pulsing, wild and sharp and _furious_ , through his bruised body—fucking  _Christ_ , maybe he just needed to grit his teeth and take a few potions to dull it—maybe he just needed to take a few potions that would let him close his eyes and fall _asleep_  tonight—that might be a lost cause already, he admitted ruefully to himself, as he weaved his careful way, in the darkness, through the cluttered chambers over to the narrow staircase—even if he wasn't straining with every last ounce of magic to feel when the spell over Agravaine finally activated, the cold that pierced through his clothes and down into his skin like needles promised to keep him wide awake. There was no way he was going to get warm enough to slip into slumber—maybe—Merlin glanced at the darkened hearth—he ought to get a fire going and sit up by the grate until morning—

— _and what do you think he will do when he sees you for what you really are—_

—the flecks of ash and cinder on the hearthrug and the flames on his face and the smoke in his lungs and burning burning burning and the  _pop_  and  _crackle_  and  _hiss_  and  _snap_  and  _no please not fire anything but fire please_ and  _that is what Arthur would do if he knew who you really are_ —

No.

No, on second thought, fire didn't sound so good, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O O F IT HAS BEEN TOO LONG. I'm SO sorry for such an extended and unexpected absence, but if it helps, it was a surprise even to me, lmao. I DID NOT expect to take so long with this chapter at all, but writer's block hit HARD, and then a thousand little things kept getting in the way until it was literally a miracle when I got even so much as a word per day on this. (I'm not going to lie, I didn't get a goddamn word on this last Friday. How to Train Your Dragon 3 fucking shattered my heart. I spent, like, half the day just sobbing.)
> 
> Anyway, so this was a fun chapter! It was great, getting to explore Arthur's perspective to this extent, as Merlin and the brief snippet we got at the end of chapter 2 can really only tell us so much. I'm not one hundred percent sure how in-character Arthur's acting, exactly, but I'm hoping it turned out okay anyway. And, yes, I'll be the first to admit, this chapter's a little slow, but I figured, as the fic is going to get a hell of a lot worse from here on out (for the characters, I mean. Hopefully it won't "get worse", as in, my writing/plot/characterization etc. takes any more nosedives. I'm literally a monkey playing with alphabet blocks when I sit down to write okay fgfgfvb cut me some slack pls). Anyway. Basically, it's only going to get darker from here on out, so it seemed a bit of a respite was in order.


	6. If You Knew the Truth, You'd Hate Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I sleep all day, I prowl at night,  
> Do anything to feel alive,  
> I'm in the end just what you made me.  
> I look the same, but I'm not fine,  
> A master of my own disguise,  
> If you knew the truth, you'd probably hate me."
> 
> \- Monster, Beth Crowley

"Holy  _fuck_ ," Gwaine said, with all his usual grace and eloquence. "You look worse than cold  _shit_."

"Oh. Another admirer," Merlin said, very flatly, because he couldn't say  _yes, thank you, Gwaine, I know how to look in a mirror, it's really not that difficult, you know._ Even with the headache stabbing up through the base of his skull like Arthur's best sword, even with the bruises throbbing like  _fuck_  all over his body, even with the exhaustion dragging at him with merciless fingers and sharp nails, he couldn't find it in himself to be that mean. Not to Gwaine. "Whatever will I do with all of you."

" _Merlin_ ," Gwaine said, uncharacteristically serious, dark brows dipping low, "what the  _hell_ happened to you?"

_What the hell happened to you?_ Merlin almost laughed at the question— _what the hell happened to you,_ like there was any good way to answer  _that_.

It was kind of a case of what the hell  _hadn't_  happened, at this point.

Agravaine had found out about his magic—his secret,  _illegal_  magic that Arthur would toss him on an actual  _pyre_  for, because that was just how it was here in Camelot, wasn't it, where existing wrong was a crime punishable by painful and dehumanizing death, and now he had to turn around and bed a man twice his age just so he wouldn't tell anyone about the secret, illegal magic that could get him killed in the first place, and if he was being honest, Merlin was about three seconds away right now from bursting into Arthur's chambers and telling his king the truth  _himself_ , because fire was looking like a better option all the time than living out the rest of his natural life like some kind of—of—tavern whore, would be the closest thing, and gods, wasn't  _that_  just the icing on the chocolate-cake-Cook-would-kill-you-for-nicking-a-bite-of at this point—and he hadn't even changed his clothes in the last two days because the idea of looking at himself and seeing what Agravaine had done to him was making him so sick he could  _scream_ , and also, he had just found out Agravaine was working for Morgana, because that man's depravity just really knew no bounds, huh, wasn't  _that_  hard to believe, and now Morgana and Agravaine had some sort of secret plan and no one knew anything about it and he was trying like hell to figure it out except Agravaine wouldn't cooperate and activate the spell and Merlin could scream about _that_ , too, and he had  _tried_ to tell Arthur about all this, sans magic and blackmail and spells that unwilling and unwitting victims wouldn't activate for him, but he really could have just told him everything because it wasn't like Arthur had believed him, anyway, or even listened, really, and so now the entire kingdom was going to fall any second into Morgana's twisted hands, and he couldn't do anything about it, ever, even when he was trying his _damndest_  because Agravaine wouldn't _activate the stupid spell_ , and even if he  _did_ , would it even—would it even matter, because he was one step ahead, he was  _always_  one step ahead of Merlin, always just out of reach, and always knowing just a _little_   _bit more_ , and Jesus _fuck_ , when had the world gotten to the point that  _Agravaine_  was an actual threat to—to anyone at all, much less the  _whole kingdom_ , and Morgana was going to kill everyone, or actually, now that he stopped to think about it, she was just going to kill Arthur, and maybe the knights, definitely Gwen, too—and then she'd turn around and enslave all the rest of them, and it was going to be  _all his fault,_ because for gods' sakes, Agravaine had been living and plotting and scheming  _right under his nose_  for an  _entire year_  at this point, and he hadn't ever realized, hadn't ever discovered, hadn't ever taken a closer look, because  _obviously_ , Agravaine was no threat, right, just a shallow, self-centered, vapid little man who cared for nothing but the silks on his skin and the curl to his hair, no threat at all, barely enough brains even if he wanted to do something treacherous—and for an  _entire year_ , Merlin had  _believed_  that—could he really blame Arthur, could he really blame Arthur  _at all_  when he'd been just as—just as taken in, just as easily fooled, with Agravaine's act, and wasn't it just another thing to add to the pile at this point, another failure—getting tricked by Agravaine, getting blackmailed and—and  _fucked_  by Agravaine, and failing Camelot, failing to protect her, and her king, and her people—after everything else he'd done, after—after Lancelot, after letting Lancelot die, just—just standing back and letting him die, and killing Arthur's father—he let his friend die, and he let his friend's father die, and was there really any farther for him to fall, hadn't he hit rock fucking bottom at this point—?

"Hey," Gwaine grabbed at his arm—not hard, it didn't hurt, but Merlin went still and silent and didn't dare pull away, and  _don't touch me, stop touching me, why is he touching me, why is he touching me_ —and waited until Merlin had met his eyes, "hey, Merlin, when—uh, when was the last time you slept, mate?"

Merlin didn't want to laugh. Not this time. It wasn't—it wasn't funny anymore. It never really had been, and he didn't—he didn't know how to answer Gwaine's question, he didn't know how long it had been—a week, two, but he didn't know anymore, and it felt so much longer than that, like a thousand years had passed since Agravaine had kissed him at the coronation, and he didn't—he didn't care to count it out, because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see and all he could feel and all he could hear, Agravaine's face and Agravaine's hands and Agravaine's voice, waiting for him, so patiently in the dark, his black eyes gleaming and his hands all over Merlin's own shaking, shuddering body and his voice low and husky with desire as he whispered _oh, so you do like it a bit rough, don't you, Merlin,_ and  _I'm sure the stable boys can't keep their hands off you,_ and  _if I am to keep your secret, I do deserve some form of recompense_ , and every time Merlin jerked awake, he jerked awake in the freezing darkness of his own bedroom, in his own rickety bed, with his own thin and fraying quilt, and he told himself, a thousand times as the hitching and jagged and sharp and aching breaths ripped at his lungs like the claws of wild things, he told himself  _I'm not there anymore, I'm not with Agravaine, I'm here, I'm here in my room and how am I going to protect Camelot if I'm weak like this, how am I going to protect Arthur if I'm weak like this_ —

"I—" Merlin shook himself— _goddamn it, pay attention to Gwaine, I need to pay attention to Gwaine_ — "—I'm fine." He wondered if he sounded as pathetic to Gwaine as he did to himself.

Gwaine snorted. Well. That answered that. " _Bullshit._  You look worse than the princess after he's had a spar with Percival, and  _that's_  sayin' something."

Merlin rolled his eyes. Of all the _fucking_  times for Gwaine to start getting  _perceptive_ , and  _noticing things_. "Thanks."

"Merlin," Gwaine said seriously—even more seriously than before, more seriously than Merlin had ever heard him, "y'know, if anyone's givin' you any trouble—"

"Wh-what?" For a split second, Merlin's heart stopped beating in his aching chest— _if anyone's giving you any trouble—_

"Don't look at me like that." Gwaine cocked an incredulous brow. "You're walkin' roun' like a beaten horse. And your cheek's got a burn the size of my sword."

"I-I'm fine," Merlin managed, even as his mouth went dry and his hand flew on instinct to his cheek and his brain fell into a monotonous loop of  _shit shit SHIT_. No one ever noticed the things he didn't want them to notice. No one ever saw the things he didn't want them to see. That was the way it worked. And if they did—if they ever caught the shadow of a bruise under his shirt, or a puckered pink scar trailing up his wrist when he hitched up his sleeve, the circles under his eyes or a spot of blood soaking through his trouser leg, it never took more than a second to throw them off the scent. To shut his mouth and smile wide, and then they knew he was okay, they knew he was fine, and everything worked out for everybody, and nobody ever had to know about the three sleepless nights standing at his back, or the knight who'd hit him in the armory yesterday or the evil sorcerer plotting against Camelot who wanted Merlin to join him and who could conveniently tear open the skin of anyone who refused to join him without ever actually touching them—

"So," Gwaine continued seriously, as if there'd been no interruption, "if anyone's givin' you any trouble—"

" _No."_  Merlin was ready for it this time, and he snapped the answer out of his mouth like a taut rubber band, like something pulled, and stretched, and strained, at every inch, every corner. This wasn't—this wasn't a conversation that was going to happen right now. Or this week. This month. This year.  _Ever_. He didn't have much to call his own right now, but he had the my-friends-don't-know-I'm-fucking-someone-because-he'll-have-Arthur-kill-me-if-I-don't card, and he didn't intend on throwing it away just because Gwaine got nosy. "I'm _fine_."

" _If anyone's givin' you any trouble,"_  Gwaine repeated, very loudly, like he hadn't heard, or like Merlin hadn't even said anything to start with, "you  _know_  I'll give you a hand, right? You  _know_  I'll give that  _bastard_  a—"

"I said I'm _fine_ , Gwaine!" Merlin said sharply, and he jerked, out and away, from the strong, black-gloved hand still holding onto him, still gripping at his arm—Gwaine _wouldn't_  give him a hand, Gwaine wouldn't give him  _anything_ , not if he knew the truth, the _whole_  truth—even if he could get past the magic bit, there'd still be the rest of it to deal with, and Merlin knew better than to believe that what he'd done with Agravaine was something he could come back from—

Gwaine stumbled back a pace in surprise—had to be surprise, no way Merlin could knock him back like that, he had a good hundred pounds of pure muscle on Merlin—and he stared, for a second, like Merlin had reached out and struck him.

An instant later, and a cold wash of guilt crashed over Merlin like a frigid ocean wave, stinging every last inch of him, all the way down to his bones.

_Why did I do that, why did I do that, what the fuck is wrong with me—?_

"All right," Gwaine said at last. "So you're fine."

* * *

"Undress," Agravaine whispered into Merlin's ear, lips wet and voice low in the dark, in the shadows, and he trailed one hand delicately along Merlin, fingers spidering slowly down the skin of Merlin's cheek, Merlin's throat, Merlin's shoulders and spine and ribs, "undress for me. And—" he pressed a soft, swift kiss to Merlin's mouth, "and give me a light, because I would very much like to watch."

Merlin hissed out sharply through his teeth at these words— _I would very much like to watch_ , because of course he would, the foul, depraved  _pig_ —but he didn't say anything, he didn't—he didn't say  _no_ , he didn't say he'd rather chew broken glass than undress himself for Agravaine, he didn't say anything at all, because there was still a burn, blazing angry red and pink on the side of his face, and it still hurt to move, and it still hurt to even breathe, and  _I can ruin you in a second_ and what—what would even be the  _point_ anymore? No matter which way he tried to turn, no matter what he tried to do, Agravaine could always block him, always stop him, always find a way to get him right back where he'd started. There was nothing he could do. Not yet, not right now, not at the moment. Not until the spell activated.

Then— _then_ —

Well. Then, he was taking Agravaine down, even if he had to burn on a pyre to do it.

Merlin swallowed, hard, and reached out for the tinderbox. The metal felt shockingly cold under his fingers.

"No," Agravaine's hand, warm and firm, closed around his own. "No. Use your magic."

"My—?" Merlin couldn't seem to get the word off his tongue. His magic. Agravaine wanted him to use his magic. Maybe he'd—maybe he'd misheard. He had to have misheard. No one _ever_  wanted him to use magic. Gaius didn't want him to use his magic. Gaius didn't ever want him to use his magic— _what if someone were to walk in and see you_ , he said, at least a hundred times a day, every time Merlin raised his hand, every time he flicked his fingers or let his eyes flash gold, and Merlin wondered more than he should if it was really the thought of him being discovered that scared Gaius so much, or—

—or just  _him_.

Just him.

Just him, and the sheer magnitude of the power he held inside his body.

"Your magic," Agravaine said quietly. "Use your magic. Give me a light like the ball you made. Last time."

Merlin hesitated, a fraction of a second longer— _trap, it's a trap, it's a trap, don't do it, it's a trap_ —but at last he lifted a shaking hand up in the dark, and with a brief, searing burn behind his eyes, the familiar, bright silver orb dazzled brilliantly in his palm, warm and solid and throwing its cool radiance into every shadowy corner of the chamber. He could see Agravaine's face, mere inches from his own, and the gleam of metal from the tinderbox still on the desk.

"You— " Agravaine said, voice strangled, and slightly hushed, "you are—"

_Bad. Evil. Wrong. Defective. Terrifying. Dangerous. Corrupt. Too powerful to live. Too powerful to be human. A monster._

A million different paths to go down here, but only one real way this sentence could end, so Merlin set his jaw and waited for it, waited for that inevitable you-shouldn't-exist, that unavoidable you-were-born-wrong—he wondered if a day would ever go by without the echo of King Uther burning the insides of his ears—

"— _beautiful,"_  Agravaine said, and there was unbridled awe in his black eyes and a wild sort of wonder in his voice, and—

—it wasn't a trap, it wasn't a trick, he'd just—he'd just asked to see Merlin's magic because—because he wanted to—no one had ever—no one had ever wanted to see it before—not ever—not _once_ —

"You're not—?" The words stuck somewhere in the back of his throat. He couldn't seem to settle on the right one. Horrified? Disgusted? Repulsed? "You're not afraid?" He didn't even know what made him say it,  _he did not even know what made him say it,_  and that—that  _scared_  him.

"Afraid?" Agravaine laughed lightly. "What is there to be afraid of?"

_Oh_. Merlin had to push back, hard, against the warm, swooping rush of joy surging up into his chest at Agravaine's words— _what is there to be afraid of,_  like he didn't—like  _he didn't think magic was dangerous_ , like he didn't see anything wrong with it, like he didn't think anyone who had it was a monster for something they couldn't even control—

_Of course he's not afraid of magic, he's working for Morgana, it's safe to say he's seen it up close plenty of times, and he's dragged you in here to make you bed him just because_ you _have magic, do you really think he's some sort of selfless champion for sorcerers just because he likes your stupid ball of light?_

Right, yes, of course,  _Morgana_ , the man in front of him was working for Morgana, and  _gods, Merlin, what were you thinking_?

Merlin tore his favorite scarf from his throat with rough, inelegant fingers, and tossed the heap of red to the desk with one short, sharp jerk of the wrist. "Stop  _looking_  at it. It's just a ball of light."

"It's extraordinary," Agravaine said, still with that unbridled awe and wild wonder.

"It's a ball of light," Merlin said harshly, and ripped off his jacket—he'd rend another hole in it, at this rate, but he was too furious to even _care_.

" _Slowly_ , Merlin," Agravaine admonished him, finally tearing his eyes from the stupid light and turning to look at him instead. "Slowly. I want to _see_."

Merlin ground his teeth together.  _"I'm sure you do."_

"Why wouldn't I?" Agravaine's dark eyes danced over him. "You're quite a pretty thing, you know."

"You're quite a  _pig_ , you know," Merlin said, but under his breath, and put his jacket down on the desk beside his scarf. He hesitated, half a second, one hand fisting in the hem of his tunic. He didn't—he didn't want to see what was waiting for him under his shirt, under his—under his— _he didn't want_ —

"Whatever are you waiting for, Merlin?" Agravaine raised his eyebrows coldly. "Keep going."

"You said _slowly_ ," Merlin murmured bitterly, and mostly to himself, but he pulled his shirt up over his head anyway, quick so he didn't have to think about it, so he didn't have to see, because it was the only way he was going to get through it at all. As the coarse fabric scratched at his skin, and fell from his body, he could see the bruises—in the ball's pool of blinding silver light, he could see the bruises, could see them winding their way over his skin like a river on a map, he could see them spreading and blossoming like the perverse imitation of purple flowers, burgeoning and blooming along the swollen flesh of his stomach, and he could see them trailing away to his back in a stream of inky blue and pale green, and he could see them straggling down his ribcage in little bursts of blazing violet, and stringing lazily along the hollow of his throat, he could  _see_  them, and the ones he couldn't see, he could  _feel_ , and he had to stop then, and he had to swallow, hard, because he didn't want to see,  _he didn't want to see_ —

"Magnificent," Agravaine hooked an arm around Merlin's bare waist, pulling him closer. "Just when I think you couldn't be more beautiful." He pressed his fingers lightly into the mottled skin of Merlin's stomach, and pain flared up, like wildfire, at the place where his hands met flesh.

" _Magnificent_ ," Merlin repeated incredulously, after a moment, voice strained and taut with pain, "well, _that's_  a relief to hear. I'm so glad you like it." His breath hitched as Agravaine's hands traced a path of agony along his ribs, but he didn't let himself stop talking, didn't let himself shut up—it would feel too much like letting Agravaine win. "I  _live_  to please, you know."

"Of course I  _like_  it," Agravaine whispered, his touch fire on Merlin's spine, fingers wreathing his flesh in flame. "You look like  _mine_."

* * *

The spell activated a week later.

Starlight spilled in bright silver streams through his glassless, uncovered bedroom window, leaving narrow bars of brilliant ivory along his floor when he felt the light little tug at his magic— _come here_ , but no human voice spoke it, no voice spoke it at all, he just—he just  _felt_  it, from somewhere in the castle—

Merlin jolted up off the bed in one sharp lurch, and the wooden frame creaked and rasped in ardent protest, piercingly loud in the silence of the room. Everything was piercingly loud in the silence of the room—his own footsteps, his own hitching breath. He hadn't bothered to put on his nightclothes or even kick off his boots—it was too cold now at night to bother shedding his layers at all—so he didn't have to stop, and thank gods, because he wouldn't have anyway—he ripped open the door, and he threw himself down those stairs, and he  _ran_.

This was the best shot he had at protecting Camelot, and he was not going to let it slip through his fingers.

He streaked soundlessly through the darkened castle, the hushed hallways and the dead-silent chambers, heart pounding against his ribs so hard it hurt—Agravaine had a head start, that much was a given, but if he could just _keep up_ —he glided past the patrols, knights and guards with their torches blazing like beacons and their armor clanking—he threw himself around corners and down staircases, through corridors and past alcoves and he didn't even know what else—he followed the magic blindly through the castle and out into the courtyard, his boots thumping on the cobblestone streets of the citadel, his breath coming in short, rattling gasps as he hit the Lower Town, and  _there_ —

Merlin skidded to a stop.

_There_ , Agravaine strode through the dark streets, straight-backed and bold and not even  _trying_  to avoid notice, his purple traveling cloak flaring behind him in a great fan, his tall, proud figure a sharp sillehoutte in the starlight, standing as he was on the very edge of the labyrinthine city. The Darkling Woods. He was going into the Darkling Woods.

_They all go to the Darkling Woods,_  Merlin thought wryly,  _even when it's negative five hundred degrees out_. He kept to the shadows now, and he kept on.

_His best shot at protecting Camelot._  He  _would not_  let it go to waste.

* * *

Morgana lived in a hovel now. Apparently.

There was a slight  _stick_  when Merlin tried to follow Agravaine through the magical wards—like he stepped in syrup, or molasses, or tree sap, and his legs didn't want to go with him the rest of the way, or like his jacket caught on the brambles and branches behind him, and hauled him back again—but a brief touch of his own power sent the whole thing crumbling at his feet, and he stepped easily over the boundary without a backward glance.

Agravaine bent at the waist, lifted his black-gloved fist, and knocked lightly on the little dilapidated door.

If this wasn't  _Morgana_ , who'd murdered innocent citizens and tried to do the same to Arthur more times than he could count, Merlin might have felt sorry for her. Actually. Yeah. He  _did_  feel sorry for her.

Even Morgana didn't deserve all that had happened to her.

She didn't deserve what he'd done to her.

The splintering door swung open on its hinges, and the second Agravaine disappeared inside, the door slammed shut again.

Merlin edged a little farther out of the trees, a little closer to the hovel—near enough to be heard, near enough to be seen, but he had to take this chance. Without Agravaine to lead the way, he might never even find this place again. He crouched beneath the nearest window, as wide open as his own, and listened, with the crown of his head pressed to the dirty sill.

"My Lady," Agravaine said, in his best bootlicker voice, his I-grovel-before-your-greatness voice—Merlin could practically _see_  him dropping into one of those sweeping, exaggerated bows. "It's been  _far_ too long since I have had the pleasure of—"

"What news, Agravaine?" Merlin could hear the eye-roll in Morgana's voice.  _She_  didn't seem to care much for Agravaine's bootlicking, either. "Have you brought it?"

_It._ Something—something Morgana needed? Maybe something that would help her take over Camelot? Something that would make her magic stronger? Something that would force people to follow her, or bend to her will, or—?

"Of course," Agravaine said, easily, and Merlin could see the smile on his face, hear it in his voice, that aren't-I-clever twist to his lip, "of course. Anything for you, my Lady."

The soft, crinkling rustle of a velvet cloak sounded out through the open window—his cloak, then, Agravaine had hidden  _it_ , whatever _it_  was, somewhere under his cloak—which meant that, whatever it was, it was small enough to fit beneath his clothes without any obvious lumps or bulges. Morgana, in the hovel, hidden from Merlin's sight, drew a sharp breath.

" _Oh,"_  she said, wild and exultant, and there was something so savage, so _vicious_ , in her triumph, that Merlin swallowed hard outside the window, and prayed to the Triple Goddess herself, there on the ground in the Darkling Woods, that whatever Morgana held in her hands at this moment, whatever Agravaine had given her, it wouldn't harm Camelot, it wouldn't harm a single soul in the kingdom he so loved, "oh, yes, this will change  _everything_." Merlin could hear the smirk in his voice, and it made something in his stomach turn. "You have done well, Agravaine.  _Camelot_ ," she spat the word from her mouth like a profanity, like a curse, "doesn't stand half a chance without its  _precious protector_ , Emrys."

_Emrys. Emrys. Emrys._ The name rolled around in Merlin's head, from side to side, back and forth, one dark and dusty corner to the next, and his heart seized up in his chest, valves and vessels clenching and constricting in a single, awful moment of raw and unconquerable terror.  _Emrys_.

Agravaine was up to something. Agravaine had something up his sleeve. Agravaine couldn't be trusted. Agravaine had allied himself with  _Morgana_ , of all people, and with her, he'd set about plotting something  _horrible_ , something loathsome, and if it went through, everything would fall apart, and Morgana would make herself ruler of  _Arthur's_ kingdom, seat herself on _Arthur's_  throne, put  _Arthur's_  crown on her head—yes, Merlin knew all that, he'd known all of this since the beginning, but it hadn't—it hadn't really occurred to him, he hadn't stopped to think about it, he just  _hadn't_ —not once, not ever—but it only made sense—it only made sense—if—

—if Agravaine knew about his magic—

— _if Agravaine knew about his magic_ —

—then Morgana knew about it, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by the fact that I FELL DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS in the final week of February, and the impact tore several muscles in my foot. The week after, I caught a wicked strain of the flu, and it's taking me forever to get back to one hundred percent, and pretty much the only good thing is I've had plenty of time for writing, since I really can't do much else. I've been on orders to rest since the last week of February, and I'm honestly going a little insane.
> 
> Anyway, while I wrote this chapter, I spent most of my time in an unending state of internal anguished screaming. Merlin is such a dumbass. But I would die for him.


	7. Make Me So No One'll Ever Want Me Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Get the room with the heart-shaped bed,  
> Make something gross feel romantic,  
> Make me so no one will ever want me again,  
> Because when I sleep with faith,  
> I only find a corpse,  
> In my arms on awakening."
> 
> \- Heart-Shaped Bed, Nicole Dollanganger

"Thank you, Arthur," Guinevere said.

She even smiled at him—soft, plump lips hitching up at the corners, and dusky cheeks, skin smooth as richest velvet, lifting a little, but Arthur knew her better than that by now.

Arthur knew her well enough to hear it, in her voice, that light little touch of exasperation in the gratitude, that tiny trifle of irritation, somewhere under her patient words, somewhere in her silvery voice, like a fast-flowing undercurrent, like sparkling ice over a churning river. Arthur knew her well enough to see it, the exhaustion and the sorrow in the smile she forced on her face, and even as the first itch of impatience dug at him, dug _into_  him, even with how many times he'd had this argument with her since the sunrise, even with how many times he'd said the words, over and over and over again, how many times he'd tried to get her to listen, tried to make her  _see_ —

Even with that—even with  _all_  of that—he couldn't be angry with her, he couldn't be, he just  _couldn't_  be, not really, not here, not _now_ , with all her exhaustion, and sorrow and grief hiding behind her eyes, not with the cold and quiet  _ache_ festering like a fatal wound inside her, something so swollen and so fevered, he did not even think Gaius could heal it.

_I'm sorry,_  he thought, with a strange sort of pang in his chest, for the thousandth time,  _I'm sorry for what my father did to you, to yours, I'm sorry my father tore your family apart, I'm sorry my father took yours from you, and I'm sorry you have to ride three days just to reach his grave because my father wouldn't lay him to rest in the citadel, wouldn't let anyone lay him to rest in the citadel, and I'm sorry that this, here, is the best I can do for you now, and I'm sorry I didn't do better by you and your father when I could have, when I should have, when it would have made a difference, when it would have mattered—_

"Thank you," Guinevere said, again, "really, this is—this is so absolutely  _wonderful_  of you, and it is so kind of you to do this, but Elyan and I know the way. There's no need to make  _more_  work for—"

"Guinevere." Arthur had to push the guilt down—if he let her keep going, she would just ramble herself breathless, and no one wanted that. "I'll  _not_  have you wandering the wilderness with only one knight."

Guinevere drew herself up. "Elyan is one of the best—"

"Knights of the realm," Arthur finished for her. "I know." On any other day, he would have loved her all the more for her fierce loyalty and devotion to her brother. On any other day, he could have kissed her right now. "But Elyan is still only one man, Guinevere. And you know there's all manner of rogues on these routes. You _need_ more than just Elyan." He'd take her down there himself, come to that, he'd take her down there himself if he could, if the demands of the kingdom and the court and the people would permit it. He knew better than to believe a king could abandon his throne for a serving-girl.

Guinevere pursed her lips, and looked at the ground.

"And," Arthur put his hand under her chin, the beautiful brown skin warm under his gentle fingertips, " _Elyan_ needs more than just Elyan, too."

Guinevere's lips hitched hesitantly back up in a small smile. "The knights will be  _bored_ ," she said.

Arthur rolled his eyes. _Guinevere._ Six years to the day her father died not a week away, and here she was, worrying about the knights, because of course she was. "They're knights, Guinevere," he told her. "This is their job."

"And Lord Agravaine—"

"Is _never_  too busy to map a safe route for you," Arthur finished, firmly. "No one in this kingdom is too busy for you when you need a service." He nodded. "I'll make sure of that."

A lovely little flush bloomed out across Guinevere's cheeks like a scarlet flower. "Arthur—"

"You don't have to do this  _alone_ , Guinevere." And Arthur gave in, and kissed her before she could raise another protest.

Her lips, warm and soft and wonderful under his own, moved with him, merged with him, meshed with him and her small hands, so delicate even with all her years of toil, pressed into his chest, his shoulders, down the curve of his spine. Little fires sprung up on his skin under her touch, and his fingers tangled up in her thick curls until he didn't think he could get away if he wanted to.

When Guinevere finally pulled back, she pulled back slowly, lips lingering on his, her breath hot and damp against his own mouth.

"Thank you, Arthur," she whispered into his skin, and it sounded sincere this time.

* * *

Morgana knew.

The truth of it ripped through Merlin's head like a rusty blade, unavoidable, inevitable, incontrovertible, until it felt as if all the fragile bones in his aching skull had started to splinter, to shatter, under the jagged, driving edge of his own barbed and biting terror.

It settled over him like a mist, like a vapor, twisting and twining its way through his brain in its ruthless, razor-sharp coils, until it filled him up like smoke, like fire, burning unconquerably through his every thought, every breath, because Morgana  _knew_ , Morgana _knew_ ,  _Morgana knew._

Morgana _knew_  about the magic. Morgana knew it _all_. Morgana knew—everything, everything, so much, too much, everything everything  _everything Agravaine knew, and_  Agravaine knew so much, too much,  _too much too much too much everything everything everything how could you have let him see how could you have been so careless so stupid so fucking stupid_ —

Morgana—Merlin dragged his thoughts back to her,  _back back back go back to Morgana, think about Morgana_ , and how massively fucked-up was it, really, that  _Morgana knows_  was still better, still easier to swallow, still something softer, than  _Agravaine knows and he's going to keep doing this and he's never going to stop and I'm going to keep letting him, I'm never going to fight back like I should, I'm never going to tell him no like I should_ —

Morgana.  _Think about Morgana Morgana Morgana Morgana—_

Morgana knew. Morgana knew everything—maybe not  _everything_  everything, but everything important, everything that mattered, Merlin wasn't going to get hung up on the details  _now,_ because Morgana  _knew_ , and _that_  was what mattered right now.

Morgana knew. Secrets and lies and walking in shadows wasn't going to work, it wasn't going to save him, it wasn't going to save anyone, it wasn't something he could depend on, not anymore, not this time, because Morgana wouldn't let him hide this time, not now, not after this, she wouldn't let him lie, she wouldn't let him walk in secrets, in lies, in shadows, she'd drag him and his sins into the light if it was the last thing she ever did, even if it destroyed her in the doing, and Merlin—

Well. Couldn't say he didn't deserve it.

Merlin swallowed, hard, and scrubbed at his eyes again, stinging with exhaustion. How had he not seen? How had he not even thought about it? Not even  _considered_ —?

It should have been the first thought in his head, the first thing on his mind, from the minute he'd found the maps in Agravaine's chambers, from the minute the final, missing piece to the strange and mysterious puzzle clicked into place, from the minute he'd said Morgana's name, he should have seen, he should have known, should have realized, should have figured it out—

_If Agravaine knows about my magic_ —and it felt so simple to him, now, to put it into words this way— _if Agravaine knows about my magic, and he's in league with Morgana, then he's told her about it, about all of it, about everything, and I should have seen that, I should have figured out, I should have should have should have_ —

There was—there was  _something_ , though, there was something, one single thing, so small, but it stuck in his head like syrup, like tar, and he couldn't get out, and it made his stomach turn in a hundred thousand ways he couldn't explain.

_Emrys._

Morgana had called him  _Emrys_.

Agravaine didn't know he was Emrys.

Agravaine  _shouldn't_  know he was Emrys.

How  _did_ Agravaine know he was Emrys? The man didn't have so much as an ounce of magic to him—Merlin would have felt it, would have sensed it, a long time ago, if he did, the way he had sensed it with Mordred, with Morgause, with Morgana—and anyway, even if Agravaine _did_  have magic—and a shiver of fear,  _real_  fear, rippled down Merlin's spine at the thought, because oh, gods,  _Agravaine_  with  _magic_ and it shouldn't have scared him half so much as it did, and he _hated_  it—even if Agravaine did have magic, it wouldn't really matter so much, it wouldn't make a difference—it wasn't like everybody with magic in the whole world knew him at a glance. It wasn't like some sort of reflex thing for sorcerers, it was really only the old ones, the _ancient_  ones, and the powerful ones, and the creatures like Kilgharrah, and the druids—

Merlin's stomach clenched.

The burning throb of his own magic in his chest, that sharp and persistent pulse of power under his skin that had led him out to the woods last night, led him to Morgana, had sunk, had settled, back down to nearly nothing now that he'd followed it, but he could still feel it, a thin golden thread, twitching lightly with Agravaine's every word, every step, every breath, and Merlin wanted to tear through his chest, cut through flesh and blood and bone, and rip it out of him, every last tiny, radiant fiber, because  _I don't want it anymore, I don't don't don't I want it out of me, I don't want to feel Agravaine anymore, I don't don't don't_ —

But—

—he  _couldn't_.

This wasn't over, not yet, not even close, not anywhere near, and Merlin knew better than to lift the spell, even if every repulsive thread of Agravaine's existence slipped, slick like oil, over his insides and under his skin and through his muscles and across his bones and merging with his blood, and it made him sick, made his stomach wrench, made his insides writhe and warp, but he couldn't stop it, he couldn't lift the spell, he wouldn't lift the spell, not yet, because this wasn't over, not yet, not even close, not anywhere near, because Camelot wasn't safe, Camelot wasn't safe, Camelot wasn't safe,  _this kingdom wasn't safe_ , not the castle, not the citadel, not the Lower Town, and Merlin could try his damndest but it wasn't going to be enough, it wasn't going to be enough, it wasn't wasn't wasn't—

" _Beswápan,"_ Merlin breathed, and he let the magic sit for a minute, in the air, arching gracefully over the house, a faint flicker of radiant gold, before he moved onto the next bit.  _"Bregoweard."_ The power crackled and pulsed under his skin, irritated from overuse, but he pushed it away, pushed it down—don't be such a girl, Merlin—and kept going.  _"Bordrand. Anhealdan_   _friþsum."_

It wasn't going to be enough.

If Morgana came marching through, when Morgana came marching through, a flick of her fingers, and these barriers and boundaries and defenses could crumble,  _would_  crumble, and she'd hurt everyone, anyone, she didn't care, she didn't care, she'd hurt even if she didn't need to, she'd hurt just to hurt, and it wasn't going to be enough, this, here, it wasn't going to be enough when the time came, when Morgana attacked—and, after everything he had heard from under the window, he knew she was _going_  to attack, and she wasn't going to wait, and this wasn't going to be enough, what he was doing here, it just wasn't going to be enough, all this, all these barriers and defenses and shields and protections and precautions and  _it wasn't going to be enough_ , but—

But it was going to  _have_ to be.

Merlin circled around to the next house.

" _Beswápan."_ Let the magic sit a minute. Move on.  _"Bregoweard."_ Let the magic sit a minute. Move on.  _"Anhealdan—"_  The warm pulse of power in his chest flickered feebly, the final spark of a dying fire, and fell back again into cold, into dark. Merlin winced, and rubbed a hand over his heart.  _"Anhealdan—"_

His hands were shaking as he lifted his arms, palms out, to complete the spell. A hot trickle of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth, the first little alarm bell— _stop stop stop, too much magic, that's too much magic_ —but he wiped it off on his jacket sleeve, and he pushed on. He had ignored the first little alarm bell before—and the second, and the third, and the fourth—and he could ignore it again. He'd be fine.

" _Anhealdan_   _friþsum."_

This time, it stuck.

Merlin moved onto the next house— _last house,_  he realized, with a sharp, fervent relief,  _last house, this is the last house, I don't have to do anymore after this one_ —

" _Beswápan."_ He pushed forward too fast to let his magic feel the pain this time.  _"Bregoweard—bordrand—"_  His breath hitched. He smothered a wince.  _"Anhealdan friþsum."_ He rubbed at his heart again, and scrubbed away a fresh, sticky track of blood running down his chin. His hands were shaking again, and his legs, and he had to stop, had to sink down to his knees in the scrubby grass all around him, and let the shudders run their course, let the blood fall from his lips.

It seemed to take an age, but he finally pushed himself back to his feet, and made his way back, through the Lower Town and the citadel, and up to the distant spires of the proud castle. He stumbled sometimes, in the dark, over the cracks and nicks in the cobbled streets, thin boots slapping loudly on the split stones in the heavy silence. His skin prickled under his clothes at every gust of winter wind, every frigid rush, every frosty flurry, every icy blast, bursting through the town.

He took every shortcut he knew, every secret passage, every hidden corridor he had ever found, and he had found a _lot_  of them—all that sneaking was good for something, after all. He rounded the last corner, climbed the narrow stairway, and pushed the heavy door open with a soft creak of old wood. His fingers trembled on the rough, uneven surface, but everything smelled of herbs and spices and the dusty old books Gaius loved so much, and  _things are okay, because I'm home,_ and it was a stupid stupid stupid thing to think, because things _weren't_  okay, things had never, ever been  _less_  okay, and he pushed off the door, hard, and he turned and he—

—he stopped.

"What—?" Fury flared to life inside him, a fire burning, blazing so bright it must be shining out through his bones like the sun, like a beacon. "What are you _doing_  here?"

Agravaine got up from the chair— _Gaius'_ chair, the man had made himself at home in  _Gaius'_  chair, and hadn't he already ruined enough, hadn't he already defiled enough in this castle, in this chamber, and if Merlin closed his eyes, he could still smell the smoke, still feel the flames as the scorching orange tongues licked his skin—

"Where _were_  you?"

Merlin pushed his eyes open. "What?"

"Where were you?" Agravaine said, again, and he stepped around a stack of books, around the cluttered worktable, around the overcrowded bookshelf, to get closer to Merlin, to get _to_  Merlin, and his black boots thudded heavily, deafening in the dark, in the quiet, and his cloak flared out behind him, sweeping along the stones in a soft and whispering swish.

Merlin reflexively stepped back. He hated it. "Sorry," he said, and he clenched his hands into fists so Agravaine wouldn't see him shake, "guess I missed the part when where I go became  _any of your damn business_."

Agravaine lifted his brows. "Strange. I seem to recall _you_  asked me the same question not a week previously."

"Yeah, well,  _I'm_  not off rubbing shoulders with Morgana in my spare time, am I?"

It was stupid. It was stupid, to say that, to say  _anything_ , because it didn't really matter, he knew how this was going to end, he knew what Agravaine wanted, and he wouldn't fight back and he wouldn't say no, he would let it happen, he would just let it happen, and he would let it _keep happening_ , he would let Agravaine take from him, take and take and _take_ , over and over and over again, as much as he wanted, as long as he wanted, and Merlin wouldn't fight back, and he wouldn't say no, and he would let it happen, but he wouldn't, he  _couldn't_ let it happen in anything like  _silence_ , in anything like  _submission._

He would do what he had to do. But he wouldn't do it _quietly_.

Agravaine flicked a little piece of lint off his sleeve. "That was not an _accusation_ , Merlin. Perhaps my memory's betrayed me, but I don't believe I said you had anything to do with the Lady Morgana."

He didn't deny his own ties to Morgana, though, he didn't deny it, he didn't even  _try,_ he didn't defend himself, he didn't even try, and why  _would_  he? What would be the  _point_  of that?

Agravaine knew, didn't he, he had to know by now that he couldn't lie to Merlin, he couldn't fool Merlin, not the way he lied to Arthur, not the way he fooled Arthur, and something—a fierce sort of—of  _pride_  seared through Merlin's chest, up the back of his throat, a fire burning under his skin, because at least Agravaine wasn't going to treat him like an  _idiot_ , pat him on the head and pretend he didn't understand anything at all.

_No, he just treats you like his little plaything, like his whore, and isn't that so much better—_

"No," Agravaine said quietly, "it wasn't an accusation. I think it would be more of a—ah—" he hesitated, "— _grievance_."

"I've got a _grievance_ , and it's called _you_ ," Merlin bit out.

The corner of Agravaine's mouth turned up. "Well, I don't like a very long wait, you see."

"Sorry I'm not constantly at your beck and call."

" _That_ ," Agravaine arched a brow, and stepped a little closer, his dark eyes raking slowly over Merlin's body, his tongue running across his own lip, " _would_  be something, now, wouldn't it?"

Heat flooded up Merlin's face in an unwelcome wave— _why is he looking at me, why is he looking at me, stop it, stop looking at me, what did I do, what did I do to make him look_ —and he grabbed, on instinct, for his scarf, coiling his fingers in the fraying cloth. "Are we going to your chambers, or  _not_?"

"Must we?" Agravaine leaned down a little. "Forgive me, but I was under the impression you had a chamber of your own."

"No," Merlin said, on reflex, on  _instinct_ , something automatic and uncontrolled, because  _please, not there, haven't you ruined enough, haven't you defiled enough, don't ruin this, don't defile this,_  and this was stupid, this was ridiculous, this didn't make any sense, who cared about a little room with a bunch of boxes shoved in the corners and a rickety old bed pushed up against the wall, who cared about it, who cared about any of it, but Merlin  _did_ , because  _Gaius_  had given him that room.

Gaius had given him that room. And it was  _his_. It was  _his_  room. He'd never had a room before he'd come to Camelot. Not all to himself like that, at least, and it had been—it had been  _special_ , it had been special to him, it had been  _important_ to him, and he didn't want—he didn't want _this_ , in  _there_.

Agravaine didn't listen to him, though. So it didn't really matter.

And Merlin let it happen.

He didn't fight back. He didn't say no.

He let it happen.

He let Agravaine lead him upstairs, let Agravaine press him into the wall and kiss him, warm wet lips all over him, his face, his neck, his cheekbones, his jaw—he let Agravaine push his jacket off his shoulders, let the man fumble, with broad fingers, for the knot in his scarf, he let Agravaine slide his tunic down, let him leave a trail of hard, hungry kisses all down his chest and stomach, and he let Agravaine shove him back onto the bed, and he let himself fall, and he didn't fight back, and he didn't say no.

"Noisy old thing, isn't it?" Agravaine murmured, into Merlin's open mouth, as the bed creaked under him, loud in the silence of the dark room, and he grabbed for Merlin's trousers, thumb running lightly along the thin, straight line of the waistband. He hadn't taken off a stitch of his own clothing yet, not even his heavy, dark cloak, not even his black boots. "If it were up to me," he whispered, breathlessly, into Merlin's ear, "if it were up to me, you'd have far better accommodations."

"So you could fuck me in comfort?"

Merlin didn't mean to say it. He didn't mean for the words to leave his mouth, he didn't mean—he didn't want—it just sort of burst out of him, and Agravaine's rough hands shoved shoved shoved at the line of his trousers until worn brown cloth pooled around his knees in a heap, and his stomach jolted.

Agravaine still hadn't even begun to undress.

"Well," Agravaine said, quietly,  _"yes."_  He trailed a hand down Merlin's cheek. "You look  _beautiful_ when you writhe naked on silk sheets, you know."

"Stop," Merlin said, and he didn't mean to say that, either, he didn't mean to, he didn't  _want_ to, buthe didn't, he couldn't—  _"Stop it."_  His breath hitched.  _Please just make him stop._

"Can't you take a compliment, Merlin?"

Even in the dark, Merlin could see it, when Agravaine's mouth twitched, and he wanted to  _fight back,_ to say no, to say _terrible_  things, to curse Agravaine until his breath ran out and Agravaine's ears bled, but greedy, grasping hands over his skin, and  _you look beautiful when you writhe_  and would it make a difference, would anything he said make a difference, would anything he said make Agravaine _stop—_

"It  _is_  a compliment, you know. You're beautiful. Absolutely  _divine_." Agravaine pressed his lips to Merlin's chest again. "I don't know a man alive who can resist those lovely blue bed-me eyes of yours."

_No._  Merlin didn't know if he ever even said it, he didn't know if he ever even said anything at all, if he said  _no_  or  _stop_  or  _please,_ and he didn't even know, really,  _why_ he should say no,  _why_  he should say stop,  _why_  he should say please, what difference was it going to make, what difference was it supposed to make, what was he fighting against, what was he fighting so hard against, what was he— _I didn't make Agravaine want me like this I didn't I didn't I didn't I didn't—I didn't mean to, I didn't try, and how could I have made Agravaine, how could I have made anyone, want me when I didn't mean to, when I didn't try_ — _?_

"Let me see," Agravaine pulled back a little, but he didn't lift his voice above a whisper—in the silence, he didn't need to, "let me see you," his fingers dragged, slowly, deliberately, over Merlin's cock, "pleasure yourself."

"What—?" Merlin's breath hooked in the back of his throat. No. Agravaine didn't want  _that_ , Agravaine hadn't waited here so long for  _that_ —?

"I trust you know the—ah— _fundamentals_?" Agravaine's dark brows rose a bit.

Merlin felt himself flush. At least the surge of color to his cheeks couldn't be seen in the dark. "Yes," he snapped, " _of course_  I know the—" he bit down, hard, on his bottom lip, to make himself shut up.

Agravaine laughed, low and deep and rumbling, in his throat, and his hand slid lightly up the bare inside of Merlin's thigh, broad fingers mere inches from his cock. "Yes. Yes, of course you do." He pressed a quick kiss to the inside of Merlin's thigh. "Have you ever," he whispered, against Merlin's skin, lips warm and wet on his naked legs, "have you ever pleasured yourself to me?"

"No,"Merlin said, vehemently, at once, even as the flush flared up again like a fire, because how could Agravaine even _suggest_ —?

"You  _have_ ," Agravaine breathed, delightedly, his voice practically a purr. He rubbed his crotch lightly over Merlin's thighs.

"I _haven't_ ," Merlin said, through his teeth. He didn't know why it mattered so much, not really, because it wasn't going to make any difference at all, nothing he said was ever going to make any difference at all, Agravaine wouldn't believe him, no matter how he denied it, but it—but it  _mattered_ , it mattered to him, because he knew, he knew the truth, even if he was the only one, and he may have given up his body, but he hadn't given up his mind, and that—that  _mattered_ , that distinction mattered, it mattered to Merlin, in a million ways he couldn't really explain.

"Show me." Agravaine pressed his mouth to Merlin's ear.  _"Show me."_

Merlin's heart thudded.

He had never done this where somebody could see him. Where somebody could hear him. Where somebody could  _watch him_. He had never done this where somebody could see him, where somebody could hear him, where somebody could watch him, and—something inside him, in the pit of his stomach, gave a tiny, uncomfortable little twist— _Agravaine will see me, Agravaine will hear me, Agravaine will watch me, like it's a performance, like it's a show, and it's not, it's not, I don't want it to be, don't make me do this, don't make me do this, make him change his mind, make him change his mind, don't make me—_

He dropped his hand down between his legs. His fingers were shaking.

His heart pounded, painfully hard, in his chest.

He had never done this where somebody could see.

He wrapped his fingers, slowly, around his own cock, hot and already a little hard at the first touch, and he shut his eyes.  _Just get it over with, just get it over with, just get it over with_ —he set the fastest rhythm he could manage, rocking a little, back and forth, on the bed as he moved, and the rough pressure of it pushed him, hard, into the first rolling wave of pleasure.

" _Fuck,"_  he said, hard as he tried not to, his voice a breathy gasp, his hands shaking as the heat started to sweep through him.

"—oh, yes, just like that, Merlin, just like that—"

That tiny little twist in Merlin's stomach just got so much tighter— _like it's a performance, like it's a show, like there's something to see, but there's not, there's not, there's nothing here for him to see, there's nothing here I want him to see, make him stop looking at me, gods, please, don't let him look at me anymore—_ another surge rocked through Merlin's body, flooded him like a river, flooded him like the sea, and  _if I can just get it over with_ —

Downstairs, the heavy door creaked open.

Merlin froze, on the bed, with the blankets scraping at his bare skin, one hand wrapped around his cock, his blood pounding like a drum in his ears, his heart a frantic, frenzied pulse in his chest. He opened his eyes.

Agravaine had frozen, too. His dark eyes had gone wide, enormous black pools too big for his lined face, and he lifted his head by the barest fraction, and looked over his shoulder at the thin door to the little bedchamber.

"Merlin?"

Even through the stone walls standing solidly between them, Merlin could hear it, could make it out, even through the wood of the closed door, and even now, he knew the way his own name sounded in Gwaine's boisterous, inelegant voice, he knew the heavy thump of Gwaine's boots on the ground down below, the clank of his armor and the swish of his cloak, Merlin knew, Merlin  _knew_ , and for scarcely a second, for barely half a heartbeat, he couldn't help but to think how Agravaine couldn't do anything in front of Gwaine, could he, Agravaine couldn't do  _anything_  in front of Gwaine, anything at all, this had to stay a secret, this had to stay between them, and—hope flickered to life in Merlin's chest, like the sputtering flame of a midnight candle, because maybe he'd stop now, maybe he'd leave, maybe Agravaine would get up and leave, maybe if Merlin made a noise, maybe if Merlin got Gwaine's attention, it would make Agravaine leave, it would make him go, because Agravaine would _have_  to stop, if Gwaine were here, Agravaine would have to stop then, he would  _have_  to, he wouldn't have a  _choice_ , he would have to stop, he would have to leave, he would have to leave Merlin _alone_ , he would  _have_  to stop, he wouldn't have a choice, not if Gwaine came up here, not if Gwaine found them here, not if Gwaine walked in, not if Gwaine saw _—_

The twist in Merlin's stomach wasn't tiny anymore.

If—if Gwaine saw— _if Gwaine saw_ —

Even if he could get his clothes back on before Gwaine got up here, even if he could cover himself back up again, Agravaine would still  _be here_ , in his  _bedroom_ , and Gwaine would wonder about that, there was no way he wouldn't wonder about that, he would ask about that, he was never the type to keep his questions to himself even when he really, really should, and if he asked, Merlin wouldn't have anything to say, no more little white lies, no more ways to water it down, or pretty it up, and—

—and no one could ever know, ever, about this, about Agravaine, about Merlin, about tonight, about all the nights that had come before, about all the nights that would come after, no one could know, because—

— _because no one can know about my magic,_  Merlin told himself, again and again and again, _no one can ever know about my magic,_ but—

—but it was bigger than that.

It was bigger than that now.

It was worse than that.

When Agravaine had gone inside Merlin, when he had—had crawled and crept, like something—something not human, when he had crawled and crept his way inside Merlin's body, inside Merlin, when Agravaine had gone inside, he had—he had taken something, and Merlin had thought, that night, that first night, that first time, he had thought,  _I'm empty now, and I'll be empty like this forever, Agravaine hollowed me out to make room for himself here, Agravaine hollowed me out so there would always be a space for him to come back to, for him to fill up again—_

But that was _wrong_ , wasn't it, that was  _wrong_ , because Agravaine hadn't—hadn't taken from Merlin, he hadn't taken from Merlin and left him empty, left him hollow, because there was something too simple, too neat, about that, wasn't there?

He hadn't emptied Merlin out so he could come back, hadn't hollowed Merlin so he could return. He had taken, and taken, and  _taken_ , until Merlin could have shouted, could have screamed, and his whole body would have echoed it back, but he had filled Merlin back up again.

He had filled Merlin, inch by inch and ounce by ounce, had filled him with terrible things, with _rotten_  things, with waste, with filth, with garbage, with  _trash,_  with decaying, dead things, with horrible things, with putrid things, with awful, with bad, with  _vile_ —Agravaine had—had emptied him, had hollowed him, and then filled him back up again with all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see, all the—the bad, the ugly, the wrong, and it had all made homes inside his hollow bones, shards and shrapnel had blended in with his blood, and a thousand evil things nested inside him now, and Agravaine had filled him up with it, Agravaine had left it all there, all the  _bad_ , all the ugly, all the  _wrong_ , all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see.

And even if Agravaine stopped now, even if he stopped right now, even if he walked away, if he walked out of this room and out of Merlin's life and never, ever touched him again, it wouldn't make a difference, it wouldn't change anything, it wouldn't take the bad and the ugly and the wrong out of him, it wouldn't take away the dead and decay, it wouldn't wash him clean, it wouldn't return him to what he had been, and he wasn't empty, he wasn't hollow, he was  _rotting_ , from the inside out, caving in and in and in on himself, a little farther every day, warping and withering into nothing, into all the things no one wanted to look at, all the things no one wanted to see, and if Gwaine came up here, if Gwaine found them here, if Gwaine walked in, if Gwaine saw—

"Merlin?" Gwaine called, again, a little louder this time, a little higher. "Merlin?"

And Merlin shut his eyes, and shut his mouth, because _rotten rotten rotten Agravaine's made me rotten and maybe I've always been rotten, always, forever, why else would I be like this, why else would I be the way I am, why else would everyone I ever touch always die, or get hurt—_

The door creaked shut again.

There was silence.

Gwaine had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so, originally, I had a lot more to this chapter - and I mean, a lot more, I honestly don't know how I thought I could condense it into one, even if I'd made it a monster chapter, like chapter 4 - but in the end, I slowly whittled it down to just this. Not a lot really happens here, but this chapter, and the next - of which I've already written a lot, as the events in it were supposed to be in this one - mark the most major turning point in the story, the most major turning point in Arthur and Merlin's character arcs, and I really wanted to emphasize that. I'm so sorry about all the unnecessary internal monologue, there was really absolutely no need for quite that much, but I really wanted to make sure everyone knows what Merlin's feeling right about now, as his emotional state here is pretty important to me.
> 
> Thank you guys so much for all your lovely and kind and encouraging comments on this fic! You're all so amazing and wonderful, I can't even believe the response I've received on this piece!


	8. Who Would Ever Want to Be King?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Revolutionaries wait,
> 
> For my head on a silver plate,
> 
> Just a puppet on a lonely string,
> 
> Oh, who would ever want to be king?"
> 
> \- Viva la Vida, Coldplay

Arthur woke up already on his feet, with his sword in his hand and his bed hangings ripped back and his heart crashing around inside his chest and his dreams still burning like fire before his eyes.  _Again._

_Stupid,_  he thought, once the last, lingering threads of his broken and restless sleep had finally gone, finally fallen from off the edges of his exhausted mind, faded away into nothing, and he could finally think again, could finally slow down, could finally breathe again— _stupid, this is so stupid, I'm being stupid, I'm just being stupid, why am I so stupid, why am I so—_

The harsh clang of his own blade, as it tumbled from his slack fingers and struck the floor at his feet, sent another sharp jolt to his stomach—he reflexively closed one shaking hand up in a fist, so tight his knuckles went white and the blue veins bulged under his skin, but  _just my sword, it's just my sword, it's just my damned sword, God, stupid, this is so stupid, I'm being stupid, why am I so stupid, why am I so—?_

Arthur dropped back to the edge of the bed, and rubbed, halfheartedly, at his temples, but he knew better than to believe he could banish the ache already splitting into his skull like the blunt blade of an old and ineffective axe. He dragged in a breath, face still hidden in his hands, and it—it helped, a little—the dark, the quiet, behind his own open palms, it helped a little, it eased the pounding pressure in his throbbing head, and it slowed the rapid rhythm of his racing heart, relaxed the tight knot of rigid tension in his chest, soothed the shudders still rolling every now and then through his tired body. _I've got no reason to panic,_ he told himself, over and over again, until he could make himself believe it,  _don't be stupid, I've got no reason to panic, I've got no reason to panic, just a dream, just a silly dream, I've got no reason to—_

Arthur's breath caught in his chest, in the back of his throat, and he had to push himself up off the bed on the heels of his hands and walk three times round the whole room before he could actually breathe again. He went to the wardrobe then—his fingers still trembled when he reached for his red tunic, but  _I'm going to the Lower Town,_  he told himself, firmly,  _and I'm going to go and see Guinevere, and Elyan, and I'm going to ensure they've got everything they need for their journey, I'm going to the Lower Town and I'm going to see Guinevere, I'm going to help Guinevere, like I told her I would, like I promised her I would,_  and the thought of her gentle face, of her smile like sunlight and her eyes like stars, was good enough to get him to breathe again.  _No reason to panic. I've got no reason to panic._

And then the door banged open, so hard it hit the wall behind, and Sir Gwaine charged in, full armor and all, and bellowed, like he wanted the whole kingdom to hear it, "I need a word with you!"

Arthur's breath did another funny hitch at the back of his throat at the loud noise, and he silently cursed Gwaine straight to hell. "It's going to have to wait."

" _No,"_  Gwaine said, furiously, "it's  _not_ 'going to have to wait', we're going to talk _now_."

Arthur rubbed at his temples again. It didn't help. "Sir Gwaine, I'm afraid I have a prior obligation—"

"Bullshit," Gwaine said. He put a hand on the sword hanging at his hip. "Is Merlin here?"

"Oh, you have  _got_ to be kidding me," Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You don't think this could have  _waited_?"

" _Is Merlin here?"_  Gwaine repeated, with narrowed eyes, and a sharp edge of ice to his voice.

Arthur looked, pointedly, around the spacious and sunlit and, decidedly, Merlin-free chamber. "Unless he's gone and hidden himself in the wardrobe, I wouldn't say so, no."

"You mean, you haven't seen him this morning?" Gwaine started to pace the room like a feral cat in a cage. His armor clanked with every step. "At all?"

"No." Arthur ran a hand down the side of his face, dry skin stretching under his fingers. "But that doesn't mean anything. He's never on time, Gwaine, I wouldn't worry about it." He turned back to the wardrobe, grabbed a fresh pair of breeches off the shelf, and shut the doors with a soft click.

"He didn't come home last night," Gwaine said quietly.

Arthur frowned. "Merlin?" He turned on his heel to look round at Gwaine again.

"Yeah." Gwaine's mouth twisted. "Not like him, is it?" He'd reached the far wall by now and here he turned, sharply, in a jangle of armor and a swirl of scarlet cloak, to pound his path back to the door.

Arthur leaned back against the wardrobe, the wood cool and firm on the bare skin of his back. "No," he admitted. "It's not." God knew the idiot took every opportunity he had to laze about in his bed as long as he could—but it still didn't mean Gwaine had any right to burst into his chambers barely after sunrise, and start yelling at the top of his voice about it.

"Thing is," Gwaine shook his head, hard, his tangled dark hair dragging down his unshaven cheek, "I don't think he's really  _been_ home in—" he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, "—a while. Days. At least."

"Well," Arthur wrinkled his brow, "he's—he's been  _here_. He's attended me—"

"Gaius' desk has got dust," Gwaine cut him off, "and that hearth was cold as ice. Woodbox was empty as the Monday morning tavern, and it's freeze-your-cock-off degrees outside these days, Princess, why wouldn't he have lit himself a fire?"

Arthur had to concede the point there. Everyone knew Merlin was an absolute petticoat when it came to the cold—could catch a sniffle at the drop of a hat, and usually spent the whole winter wrapped in every last flimsy little layer he owned, like it wasn't his own idiot fault he didn't have enough meat on his bones to stave off the chill. Couldn't pay the man enough to forego a fire.

But that was no reason to let Gwaine get himself riled up about all of this. There was no reason to think Merlin was anything other than perfectly all right.

"So he's not had time to replenish the woodbox," Arthur said, calmly, and stepped behind the dressing screen. "Hardly unusual around this time of year, Gwaine. Yule's not far, and we need everyone to pitch in a little extra." He wrenched off the trousers he'd slept in, and tossed them over top of the screen.

"Look, there's something wrong with him!" There was a thump somewhere beyond the dressing screen. Probably Gwaine had knocked something over.

"What, just because he can't be bothered to refill the woodbox?" Arthur pulled on the clean pair of breeches, and tried not to ignore the acid bubbling up and burning in the pit of his stomach. So maybe Gwaine had a point. Maybe Merlin  _had_  been nattering on a lot less than usual lately. Maybe he  _had_  gone tense and quiet and distant lately. Maybe there was something strange and strained in his smile, maybe Gwaine was right, maybe there was something wrong with him, and maybe it stared Arthur in the face every damned day, but—

— _you've known Morgana since you were a child—_

—but no matter how Arthur tried, how he pushed at the words, plucked at them, pulled at them, stretched them out to their fullest, he couldn't push or pluck or pull them out of his mind, couldn't stretch them clean out of his skull, and he could still feel them, sitting and seething and festering, like old and infected wounds in darkest, smallest corners of his own sick and sleepless mind, burning and blazing at the back of his exhausted brain, building homes inside his head, sticking, like syrup, like tar, to the insides of his skull, and he couldn't speak anymore, couldn't fill the silence anymore, couldn't find it in himself to do anything, to say anything, just let that strange and strained something in Merlin's smile slip past him, just let the tense and quiet and distance get bigger and bigger and _bigger_  and—

"It's not about the  _woodbox_ ," Gwaine snapped. "He's  _not_  himself. Looks like he hasn't slept in ages, and if he's had a full meal in the last week, I'll eat my own sword." He tapped at the hilt of his weapon with the tips of his fingers for emphasis. "He looks about ready to collapse."

"And what do you expect  _me_  to do about it?" Arthur tugged his tunic on over his head, and stepped out from behind the dressing screen. "If he's too much of an idiot to take care of himself, I hardly think I can _make_  him—"

"I don't want you to make him do anything, Princess, that's not the point—"

"Well, whatever you want, you're going to have to come out and say it, because I don't have the time—"

"Listen, Princess, I—" Gwaine raked a hand roughly through his hair, "—Arthur—"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. His name? Now that was new, at least coming from Gwaine.

"—someone's _hurting_  him."

"Hurting him?" Arthur rolled the words around inside his mouth, inside his mind, and he felt his stomach tense up.  _Merlin?_   _Hurt?_  "Why would you—?" He leaned back against the front of the dressing screen. "What's given you that idea?"

"You're telling me you haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?" Arthur demanded. "I'm running a kingdom, I have far better things to do than pay attention to my _servant_ ," he added, sharply, when Gwaine stared at him in disbelief.

"Fine, all right, then, since I've got to spell it out for you," Gwaine said, tightly, "he's bruised. All to hell, Arthur, like you wouldn't believe. All over his wrists, and Christ, there are  _handprints_ —"

"Handprints?" Arthur echoed uncomfortably. No, no, not possible, he'd have noticed if his own servant came bumbling into work with bruises and handprints on his wrists, he'd have noticed if someone had grabbed Merlin, he'd have noticed if someone had hurt him, he'd have noticed it, he'd have seen, but his stomach still did that tense-up thing again when he thought about it. He would have noticed it.

But—but if he _hadn't_ —

"—and I don't think that burn on his face was an _accident_ —"

He would have noticed if his own servant came bumbling into work with a burn on his face, but something in Arthur's chest clenched tight like a fist, like a vise, and his breath hooked in the back of his throat. He would have noticed burns, and bruises and handprints, he would have noticed, he would have seen, he would have taken care of it,but if—if what Gwaine said was true—if there was even a shadow of a chance that Merlin might—that he might be—that someone might have—

"—he's skittish as a spooked horse these days," Gwaine barreled on, "doesn't even like me to touch him anymore—" he'd taken up the pacing again, one hand still tangled in his own dark, unkempt hair, "—and, Christ, Arthur, he's tense as a taut bowstring, keeps lookin' 'round everywhere he goes like he thinks he'll get  _beaten_  if he lets down his guard."

"I'm—I'm sure Merlin's all right," Arthur said, weakly, but he burned even as he spoke the words, because if Gwaine was right, if his story was true, if Merlin was getting hurt, if anyone was laying a hand on him, if anyone had messed with so much as a hair on his idiot head, if somebody had really hurt him, if somebody had really  _beaten_  him—Merlin, bloodied and battered and frightened and defenseless, while an unseen assailant held his wrists so hard he bruised and burned his face and beat him while he couldn't fight back, flashed through Arthur's mind, and that horrible tight feeling inside him got even tighter.

"No," Gwaine jerked up short, and spun to face Arthur, "no, he's  _not_. Iknow what I'm seeing, and I don't like it, and if you don't believe me, I'll—"

The door banged open again, crashing back into the wall behind with a tremendous blast, and Lord Agravaine walked inside.

"Sire," he bowed low, but he didn't slow down, he didn't break stride, black cloak flaring out at his back in a whirl of thick, dark cloth, "I apologize profusely for such an indecorous intrusion at this early hour, but I'm afraid I cannot—" He stopped mid-sentence, mid-step, even, and he flicked his gaze uncertainly from Arthur to Gwaine and back again. "Forgive me," he took half a step back, "am I interrupting something?"

" _Yes."_  Gwaine's dark brows dipped down into a thunderous scowl.

"No," Arthur said, quickly, "no, not at all, Uncle." He couldn't turn his uncle away over Merlin. He couldn't ignore the Lord Agravaine for a servant. Couldn't put someone like Merlin over someone like Agravaine. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and it always would be, but it was the way it had to be. Gwaine could understand that. Merlin could understand that.

"Hang on, Princess," Gwaine snapped out, and took a step forward, "you can't just—"

"Please allow me to hear the Lord Agravaine out, Sir Gwaine," Arthur held up a hand to shut Gwaine up, and pushed down that horrible tight, tense feeling in the bottom of his stomach again—if Gwaine was really onto something, and Merlin really was in trouble—

— _he could be getting hurt right now—_

Gwaine glared at Agravaine.

Agravaine did not seem terribly bothered by this. "My Lord," he swept himself up to his full height at once, and clasped his black-gloved hands behind his back, "your presence is urgently required in the council room. Please come with all due haste, Sire, I'm afraid there has been a truly terrible occurrence." Here, Agravaine hesitated, however briefly, as if the words to come were too horrendous to leave his lips, and Arthur's stomach started to tense up again. "My Lord, last night, a sorcerer was spotted in the Lower Town."

* * *

Merlin had started shaking again. In the waxy, cold light of new dawn, he could see it, could see his own hands, pale and empty and open, trembling against the rough, dark burlap of his pillow, trembling like little white birds, like leaves on a cold night in the Darkling Woods, and  _isn't it funny,_  he thought, but in a very strange and distant and detached sort of way,  _isn't it funny, I can see it, I can see my hands are shaking, I can see the shudders jolting through my palms, I can see the short, sharp tremors, I can see the little lurches and jerks and spasms but I can't feel them very much at all, isn't that funny?_

His fingers looked very white.

It was as if the sun was trying to wash him away. To bleach him to white, to turn him to grey, the sun was trying to take all the color out of him, and wasn't that odd, wasn't that funny?

_Maybe I have gone to sleep,_  he thought, in that strange and distant and detached sort of way again,  _maybe I have gone to sleep, and maybe it was all a dream. Maybe this is all a dream._

This  _felt_  like a dream now that he thought about it—his head felt the way it did in his dreams, very heavy, and far too big for the rest of him, like someone had gone and stuffed his skull with thick, fluffy cotton, or wool blankets, maybe, like the sort Arthur liked to sleep with in the winter, and it felt like maybe he was under water, under an awful lot of water— _maybe I'm under the lake, maybe I'm with Freya,_  and then he could see her face when he closed his eyes and he couldn't breathe and his chest ached and he thought he'd die with the pain of it even when he knew he had said his goodbyes to her a long time ago.

He was under the water, and he had a thousand miles to go before he reached the surface, and the whole world around him wanted to drag him back down into the dark.

He tried to sit up.

It took him a long time—or maybe he was just imagining it, maybe it was all a dream, maybe he was making everything up, inside his own mind, but that was the way it felt to him, like he struggled for hours, for ages, forever and ever and ever, until he finally leaned up on jerking, shuddering arms, and stayed there.

_It was all a dream,_  he thought, again, and he felt better, then—the awful, aching pressure in his chest didn't weigh so heavy on him anymore.  _It was all a dream. Last night was all a dream. I made it up inside my mind. But it didn't really happen. Nothing happened. Nothing ever really happened. It was all a dream. It was all only a dream._

His torn, patched trousers lay in a mud-brown heap at the bottom of the bed, the thin cloth tangled up around his bare, pale legs.

His breath hitched.

_I dreamt it,_  he told himself, again,  _I dreamt it, I dreamt it all, it didn't really happen, it was all a dream._

The soft, white insides of his thighs had stains. Long, sticky trails of fluid— _of filth_ , and sour bile burned hot as fire at the back of his throat—streaked in thin lines along his clammy skin.

_It was all a dream,_ he said, over and over and over again in his own mind, like a song stuck in his head, like a spell he couldn't forget, like a story, but he didn't know the end,  _it was all a dream, last night was a dream, I made it up, I made it up, and it's all right because it didn't happen and I made it up and it was all only ever a dream,_ but he could feel the brittle, flaky crust under his fingers when he let himself touch his legs, and—

— _can't you take a compliment, Merlin?—_

His stomach clenched like a vise, like a fist, so sharp and tight and it  _hurt_ , and he had to press a trembling hand to his mouth, fingers shaking on his own lips, just to stop the sick from spilling out—

— _you look beautiful when you writhe naked on silk sheets—_

— _a dream,_  he howled in his own head, over the frantic, frenzied hammer of his own heart, _a dream, it was a dream, it was all a dream, it was only ever a dream_ —

— _you're beautiful, absolutely divine_ —

— _it didn't happen,_  like a song stuck in his head, like a spell he couldn't forget,  _it didn't happen_ —

— _oh, yes, just like that, Merlin, just like that_ —

—like a story, but he didn't know the end—

Merlin lurched off the edge of the bed. He snatched for his trousers in a pool at his feet, and he wrenched them up to his waist, and cinched the string as tight as it could go. The rough cloth still sagged down the slope of his narrow hips, and thick violet fingerprints glared furiously back at him just above the thin waistband, the smear of purple startlingly vivid against the smooth white of his skin.

— _you look like mine_ —

Merlin dragged in a breath, and dropped his hands back to his sides. Little tremors still spiraled through his fingers every few seconds.

He dressed—tunic, belt, jacket, boots, scarf, he had to run through the list a full three times in his mind before he realized he had gotten everything—and he went down the stairs. He could still feel last night on his legs, and the homespun cloth on the insides of his ragged trousers rubbed painfully at the mess. It would be all over him, all day, until he finally undressed again, and to think of it sent a trail of revulsion skittering down his spine, clawing up the back of his burning throat.

Soap and water would never wash him clean again.

* * *

_Something's wrong._

Merlin knew—from the second he slipped into Arthur's bedchamber, breakfast tray balanced precariously in the crook of his left arm, and the low, furious voices fell on his ears, heavy as hammers, he  _knew_ , and his stomach pulled almost painfully tight with the tension of it—Arthur had that same strained, pinched look on his pale, exhausted face that he got when he thought of Morgana, when he didn't think he'd made the right decision, or when he didn't think he made a good king, or when he didn't think he'd done enough to protect his people, and over on the far side of the room, Gwaine paced from the bed to the dressing screen to the wall and back again, like some wild, restless animal, and over by the window, Agravaine—

Merlin felt himself pull up to a sharp stop—felt the sudden stall in his steps, the stumbling falter to his feet, and the ground tilted violently beneath his boots, until he thought he'd fall— _can't you take a compliment, Merlin_ —he ground his teeth together until his jaw ached, and he put Arthur's breakfast down on the table with a light little thump, quick before he could drop it.

"—the hell of it," Gwaine said, impatiently, and jerked his head to the side to get the dark, shaggy hair out of his eyes. "How do we  _know_ —?"

"It's nonsense you talk, Sir Gwaine," Arthur said sharply, blue eyes glistening bright with fury, "and well you know it. When has a sorcerer ever sought to do anything but bring hurt and harm to the innocent?"

The ground did that tilting-under-Merlin's-boots thing again, and he grabbed for the edge of Arthur's table to stay on his feet.  _Sorcerer?_ His stomach pulled even tighter.  _Why—why are they talking about sorcerers, what's happened, is it a sorcerer, is there a sorcerer, has Arthur found a sorcerer, has Arthur killed a—? Has he been attacked by a—?_

"What's—what's going on?" Merlin forced the words through dry lips, and flicked his gaze to Arthur first to find his answer.

Arthur stared back at him for a second too long—Merlin thought he seemed to be looking for something, searching, hunting, almost, but then he threw his shoulders back, and he stood up perfectly straight and he turned back to Agravaine, and the second was over, and Merlin supposed he must have imagined it. Made it up inside his own mind.

"Thank you for bringing me this news, Lord Agravaine," Arthur said, in a very tight, very formal sort of voice, and it was as if Merlin hadn't said a word. "If you and Sir Gwaine could proceed to the council room," he tipped his head toward the door, "I will join you both in ten minutes' time."

To Merlin's surprise, it was Gwaine who left first, with a little jerk of the chin in Arthur's direction as he headed out the door, and Agravaine who lingered.

"My Lord," he protested, "surely this happenstance takes  _all_  precedence, does it not? You cannot ignore—you must focus on the safety of the people—"

"Lord Agravaine, your concern for Camelot is truly admirable," Arthur said, except there was the barest edge of steel in his voice now, and Merlin had never, ever heard Arthur speak to Agravaine, of all people, that way—as far as Arthur was concerned, his uncle could do no wrong. "But I'm afraid I have another responsibility I must attend to, and I have already left it far too long."

Agravaine fumbled, for a moment or two, his thin lips parting, his mouth opening up and closing back again every few moments—his dark eyes snapped to Merlin, and his jaw tightened. His heavy black brows dipped low in a scowl.

"Very well, Sire. It shall be as you wish." Agravaine swept down low in a bow so exaggerated, it was nearly derisive—Merlin felt his own hands close up in fists at the sight of it—and, in a whirl of thick black cloak, turned abruptly on his heel, and strode, straight-backed, out the door. It shut back behind him with a sharp  _snap_.

The instant his uncle had gone, Arthur sat himself down, heavily, on the edge of his unmade bed, pushing the rumpled, snow-white sheets out of his way with the back of one hand. He ran shaking fingers lightly down the side of his tired face. "There's a sorcerer on the loose in Camelot," he said, very softly, but in the silence, it seemed very loud.

"Sorcerer?" Merlin's heart thudded, painfully hard, in his chest, at the word, and he skimmed the tip of his tongue lightly over his own cracked lips. "What—what do you mean, ' _sorcerer_ '?"

"I mean _sorcerer_ ," Arthur said impatiently. "What, are there supposed to be different sorts of them or something?" He leaned down, and dug around underneath the bed for his boots. "Eyewitnesses say he tried to lay some kind of curse over the Lower Town. That's all anyone knows." An exhausted sigh slipped through his lips.

_Lower Town?_  Merlin's mouth went dry as the first cold trickle of suspicion crawled down his spine. Last night—in the Lower Town— _he_ had—but no, that was—that was mad, wasn't it? Completely and utterly mad. He had been careful enough. Hadn't he? Yes. He had. Of course he had. Careful. That was what he was. He was good at careful. Even if Gaius would disagree.

"—thankfully, the magic has yet to manifest itself in any visible way—"

Arthur's voice dragged on and on and on, and Merlin knew he needed to listen, he knew he needed to hear, it could help if he knew, if he knew how much the council knew, if he knew how much Arthur knew, it could help, but—but if someone had seen him—if someone had seen his  _face_ —if anyone had gotten even half a look at him, in the light of the lanterns flickering on either side of the narrow, cobbled streets, if the fire had lit him up even for a moment, if anybody had—if anybody had seen—

"—and many citizens have sought refuge in taverns and inns within the citadel walls to ensure the investigations of the incident can proceed with all due haste—"

—no one could have seen, no one could have seen, it had been far too dark, the odds were just insurmountable—

"—unfortunate Gaius could not be here—we could use his expertise—"

— _but if anyone had,_ and something cold and heavy settled deep in the pit of Merlin's stomach, to think of it—

"—hardly a reassurance, when you really—"

" _Arthur,"_  Merlin said, sharply, as much to shut Arthur up as to pull himself back from the world of what-if and could-have, to pull himself back together before he could even begin to fall apart, "what else have the witnesses said?"

"I don't know." Arthur scowled. "Lord Agravaine tells me he has gathered them together in the council room, to give me their testimony when I arrive. Let us hope their accounts will prove useful to us."

_Let us hope they won't,_ but Merlin bit his tongue, and forced a nod.

Arthur clambered back off the bed—the heels of his thick boots thumped lightly on the ground—and brushed off his breeches with the flat of his hand. "Merlin," he said, quietly, "Guinevere and Elyan stayed in the Lower Town last night."

"— _oh."_  It was barely a word, barely even a breath, come to that, and Merlin had to ball his hands back up in fists just to stop that damned shaking starting up again.  _If I could just tell him, if I could just explain it to him, if I could just—_

"See to them," Arthur said, so short and sharp he sounded as if he might shatter. "Go to the Lower Town, and see to them. Make sure they're all right. Inform Elyan of the council meeting, if he's—" Arthur's eyes squeezed shut for a second or two, "—if he's still fit to attend."

_He will be,_  Merlin thought, with a desperate pang of his pounding heart,  _he will be, Arthur, if I could just tell you, if I could just make you see, if I could just tell you it was me—_

"And then you will stay and assist Guinevere in any way possible. She and Elyan intend to visit their father before the week is out, and I've no doubt they'll need aid to prepare for the journey in such short time."

"Yes," Merlin said, "yes, of course."  _If I could just tell him, if I could just show him he has no reason to worry—_

"I intended to do so myself, but—" Arthur stopped, for a long moment, "—but plans have changed."

"Nothing's happened to them," Merlin blurted out, almost before Arthur had finished speaking, because he couldn't stop himself, he couldn't help himself, he could not stand to see Arthur so miserable, so afraid, "nothing's happened, Arthur, they're going to be all right."

Arthur pressed his lips together. "Thank you, Merlin. That will be all." He stopped just long enough to get his crown from off its stand as he headed for the door, and he jammed the circlet clumsily on his head, as he marched from the room.

Merlin hesitated, in the open entryway, half in and half out of the bedchamber, but—

—but Gwen and Elyan weren't really in any danger at all, even if Arthur didn't know that, even if Arthur couldn't know that, and Merlin—

—Merlin stepped out into the corridor and followed after Arthur.

He had to know what the witnesses knew, what the council knew, what Agravaine knew, what Arthur-

What Arthur was about to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> But seriously there is absolutely no valid reason why this chapter took me from April to June? I didn't even realize how long it had been until I checked the "last updated" slot at the bottom. honest to God lads. I'm Shook. But I'm real pumped to be back on this fic again! This was technically supposed to be the Big Chapter - the one where it all happens, if you will, but I didn't get too far in before I realized I was just trying to say too much with this one, and no matter how long I kept at it, this one was going to turn out sloppy if I didn't cut it down a bit. So! I split it up into two, and the NEXT chapter will be the one where it all happens, and y'all can hold me to that! Y'all can quote me on that! Y'all reserve the right to quote me on that!
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> Also, fun fact here, I used Viva la Vida specifically because, before I decided to officially call the fic Do You Feel Like a Young God, I debated between Who Would Ever Want to Be King and Puppet on a Lonely String. Still really attached to both of those titles, hence this chapter name lmao.
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> Oh! I almost forgot! Soo, the amazing and lovely and incredible ouroborosasunder on Tumblr gifted me with some of their amazing and lovely and incredible art based off this fic!
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> ((sorry it's so huge ;A; but isn't it BEAUTIFUL ???!!))

**Author's Note:**

> HUZZAH this idea has been on my mind for literally EVER and I only just now got around to writing it because I'm a lazy bastard. Oh, God, it's been so long since I actually wrote a multi-chapter fic. am I vibrating.


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